As the World Falls Down
by Iavas
Summary: Stories become legends, legends become myths, and myths eventually become life. Jareth has waited seven years since his defeat, watching as Sarah grows into a woman and into her dreams of acting. A careless wish summons him back from the Underground.
1. Prologue Waiting

Disclaimer:

Standard disclaimers apply.

_The Labyrinth_ is the property of Jim Henson and its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.H.C. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for product.

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**As the World Falls Down**

**Prologue**

**Waiting**

He had known her already, long before that fateful night he'd taken her Underground. For years, her dreams had called to him, dreams of such brilliance that even the darkness of the Underground was illuminated in shades of gold and crimson and azure. Dreams so vivid that they penetrated even the castle hidden in the heart of the Labyrinth, dazzling in their childlike innocence and the very _humanity_ of their desires. She'd dreamt of glass slippers made of tears and wishes; of knights in shining armor, who rode steeds of purest white to certain glory; of magic spells that could only be broken by the right words. They made him laugh with their absurdity. And yet he found himself drawn again and again, night after night, to watch her dreams.

Then one night he'd appeared to her.

He had been angry when she'd refused his gift. He had offered her her dreams, the very dreams that he'd ached for, and she had refused. Yes, he'd been angry, but also amused. Amused by her assumed bravado, by her refusal to cower before him. No, he had been more amused. He had become interested, and in that moment, had found himself unable to resist her. So he had given her the chance to win back her brother, the brother he had initially stolen to please her.

He had denied her nothing. For her, he had reordered time and turned the world upside-down, and she noticed nothing. He'd offered her _everything_, including himself, in return for her fear and her love. _I will be your slave,_ he'd implored her. Uselessly. As she flung away the possessive hold of the Labyrinth, Jareth felt himself ripped apart, felt his carefully constructed world fall apart around him. Falling apart, falling down, falling....

How cruel she was, this little slip of a girl with wide green eyes. So cruel and so merciless.

And he was falling too, falling in love, falling down, falling apart, falling, falling, falling....

That had been seven years ago. Seven years for him to remember himself. Seven years to recollect his power. Seven years to reclaim his throne. Seven years to rebuild the Labyrinth. Seven years to find Sarah again. Seven years to watch her grow, and seven years to lay out his plan.

He'd watched with interest as Sarah grew into womanhood, leaving behind the gawky limbs of adolescence; with consternation as her dreams began to change with the increasing self-awareness of maturity, and the once prized toys of childhood were eventually discarded while he became a memory of a dream; and always, he watched her with a fervor that blazed even brighter than the dreams that had once enraptured him. How dare the wench forget. How dare she relegate him to the distant corners of her. How dare she be ordinary, when she'd turned his world upside-down and overthrew him. How dare she defeat him. For seven years, he'd watched her in anger as she lived her mundane life, watched her and waited.

He could wait no longer.

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There is no ball, no strains of music on the wind. There is only the rose covered gazebo. ItsThe silver-clad occupant stares forlornly into the distance in anticipation of her dancer partner.

Of a prince.

Of a king.

Of her lover.


	2. Moonlight

**Disclaimer: **

Standard disclaimers apply.

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson and its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

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**Chapter 1**

**Moonlight**

The whisper of silk skirts brushing one another, sighing with longing. The heaviness of a thousand gems sewn onto her bodice, twinkling in the candlelight like a thousand stars. Perfume hung in the air, heady and full of promise, and the taste of champagne and peaches lingered on her tongue. She could hear music.

And through it all, under it all, the feeling that she was searching for something she'd forgotten -- this terrible sense of loss. The grandfather clock loomed over the dancing throng, its short hand approaching twelve o'clock. There was something important about midnight. Yet she could not remember, and she still could not find what she was searching for in that dizzying sea of masked faces.

And a hand upon her waist, guiding her through the crowd. That hand was sure and confident, gloved in black leather. She was dancing in someone's arms, arms that held gently and yet securely. Arms that held her protectively from the leering faces. Yet his face was a blur, dark and forgotten.

A tapping at the window woke Sarah from her dream. She was in her bedroom, the planes of the room washed in the darkness of night, unlit by elaborate chandeliers. The masked faces faded. The glittering ball gown was only a set of striped pajamas, and the music was the moaning of the wind through the leaves of the apple tree outside her window, batting its branches against the glass. There was no hand upon her waist.

Slipping her feet out from under the covers, she crossed the room and flung open the window. The night air was cool, banishing the last wisps of the dream. But the terrible sense of loss remained.

Sarah sat down on the window seat, drawing up her knees so that she could rest her cheek against them. Moonlight streamed in through the open window, a pool of pale blue on the carpet, and her shadow, blurry and indistinct. A glint of silver as the breeze brushed against the gazebo figureine, setting off hesitant strains of its melody.

The gazebo alone had escaped the scourge of childhood. Each time, she made up her mind to throw it away, the forlorn princess in her silver gown, and the haunting almost remembered music seemed to reach into a part of her heart, begging to remember. In the end, she never could, a memento of a dream that came true once, even if only for a little while.

A glimmer of red in the mirror, an action glimpsed out of the corner of her eye, but when she turned, nothing was there. Everything lay still. Had she only imagined something -- or someone -- scurrying into the safety of darkness? Or perhaps a beckoning hand? _I need you, Hoggle_ she thought, hugging her knees. The thought took her by surprise. Where had it come from? She repeated the thought out loud, a prayer, a forgotten childhood talisman against fear. "I need you Hoggle. I don' t know why, but I need you."

Only the silence responded.

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"Toby, don't wander too far!" she called to the laughing boy of eight, running after the ducks in the park. A shaggy sheepdog followed, his tongue lolling as he bounded over the grass in reckless abandonment. The boy paid her no attention, and Sarah merely shrugged her shoulders, knowing full well he'd return when he ran out of bread crumbs. The air rang with his shrieks of delight as the ducks came at his call.

Sarah spread her blanket under a willow and took from her bag a book. It was a paperback, small, thin, and drab. She opened it to a dog-eared page.

"Excuse me...." Sarah looked up from her book. A young girl of about twelve years blushed furiously. "Excuse me, are you Sarah Williams, the _actress_?" The word was spoken with the reverence of a title, as if she were a princess, or even a queen.

Sarah smiled, remembering full well the same awe she had treated the members of her profession in her younger years -- the adoration she'd held for her mother and her costar Jeremy. They had seemed as bright as stars in the sky, just as beautiful and equally untenable. "I am," she replied kindly. The girl blushed even more furiously (was it possible?) and produced a notebook and pen. Graciously, Sarah took it, opening it past pages of adolescent scribbles and magazine clippings to a blank page. She personalized it to -- "Lizzie," the child said humbly, "Elizabeth, but everyone calls me Lizzie" -- with a brief message about staying true to one's self, and signed it with a flourish. She handed it back.

At this moment, a young boy bounded over to them, sandy brown hair falling in his eyes. "I'm sorry, is my sister bothering you?" he asked, setting a hand down on the shoulders of the young girl. Lizzie pouted. Not a boy, really, Sarah thought. He was well into his twenties, tall and well-built, obviously comfortable in his own skin. Yet it was the easiness of long years of athleticism, not the arrogant confidence of... she lost the thought. She shook her head.

"Not at all," she replied, giving Lizzie another kindly smile. The pout vanished."

"Lizzie, go play with the ducks," her brother commanded. When she opened her mouth to protest, he added in a tone of absolute finality, "Now." Huffing and grumbling, she obeyed.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he said almost accusingly, "I don't think I've seen you here before."

"I used to come here a lot as a child, but now I live in the city for work," she replied. "I'm here with my brother."

"Your brother?"

She pointed. "Toby Williams, who's also playing with the ducks."

Comprehension dawned on his face. "You're Sarah Williams, the actress."

"Guilty." She laughed, a silvery bell-like chime.

"Well!" he declared. He ran a hand through his sandy hair, leaving it messier than before. "I'd never thought I'd run into you of all people here in this park. I'm Christopher Andersen. Call me Chris." He stuck out his hand.

Reaching up from her seat, Sarah shook it. His grip was firm and calloused, the hand of someone who enjoyed the sunlight.

Without an invitation, he dropped onto the blanket beside her. "Are you only in town for the weekend?" he asked.

Sarah contemplated him. He was dressed casually in jeans and sneakers, a windbreaker unzipped over a t-shirt. He seemed unaware of any transgressions, completely at ease in the ignorance of youth. He was okay. "Yes," she said. "I'm going back to the city tomorrow. I won't be back until Thanksgiving break."

"Oh." He was clearly disappointed. "And I suppose your family will want you all to themselves tonight then?"

"Yes." It was Toby who answered. He had returned when he'd seen a man plop down onto the blanket next to his beloved sister. Even worse, an _unfamiliar_ man, who was clearly leaning in too close. He glared balefully at the stranger, one hand buried in Merlin's shaggy fur. The dog, however, sensed no danger and merely sat down on the grass happily. "Sarah promised to tell me a story tonight."

Sarah smiled, a dazzling smile. It was neither apologetic or rueful. "I promised to tell Toby a story," she told Chris. "It was very nice to meet you."

He was already climbing to his feet. "It was," he agreed. "Maybe I'll see you again, when you come back for Thanksgiving. See you, Toby. Goodbye, Sarah."

"What did he want?" Toby demanded, when Chris had left with his sister. Lizzie was waving her notebook excitedly. He glared at their backs.

"Nothing," Sarah said distractedly. "Just a neighbor, I think."

The suspicion in Toby's eyes subsided, a little. However, he didn't leave her side the rest of the afternoon, laying his head in her lap as she read to him out of her book, about a princess who had been kidnapped by the goblins under her castle.

The gloom of dusk stole upon them. The autumn evening was cool and brisk, reverberating with the promise of adventure. In the distance, the bell struck seven, yet the sound of bells did not bring the sense of panic they once did. No thunderstorm took her by surprise. Sarah shut her book.

"Dinner time, Toby," she said.

The boy rubbed his eyes, sitting up from where he lay with his head in her lap. He loved when Sarah read him stories. When his parents read, they were simply reciting words, disconnected from the story, something apart from themselves. But Sarah would bring the story to life, her voice full of expression and tones and nuances, and they would live the story. She used to tell the most amazing stories about goblins and an ever-changing maze, until one day, she'd simply stopped. When he'd asked her for the story again, the one about the King of Goblins, she'd looked blank. He'd never asked for the story again.

Holding hands, they walked home. A white owl watched them go past, and a strange anxiety, almost a fear, made Toby hang tighter onto his sister's hand. When they rounded the corner, the owl was still watching them, its head cocked to the side.

Three hours later, she tucked Toby to bed. The room was guarded by various stuffed animals, stuffed animals that had once watched over Sarah in her youth. Lancelot the Teddy Bear led the vanguard from his place of honor, tucked under Toby's chin.

"Do you think we'll ever see Jareth again?" he mumbled sleepily.

Sarah paused -- almost froze, almost -- in the middle of pulling the covers up over him. "Who?" she asked.

Toby was asleep already.

Silently, she pressed Lancelot against the sleep boy, as if the teddy bear could ward her brother like the fabled knight that was its namesake. The name had awakened several emotions within her, yet it was fear that gripped her the most tightly. Fear for Toby. Fear for herself. And also, inexplicably, a strange excitement -- or was it nervousness? Almost like the butterflies in her stomach when she went on stage, this strange exhilaration that left her breathless and afraid to move for fear that the moment would pass. Yet she could not remember knowing anyone called Jareth. Such an old-fashioned name too.

Outside, the wind whistled and moaned, and she seemed to hear it call her own name, tossing it upon the tumultuous air. "Sarah! Sarah!" it cried in despair. Shivering, she closed the window and drew the curtain, shutting the cold dark night. Switching the light off, she closed the door after her.

Her hand lingered on the doorknob. No, she was being silly. Why should she suddenly worry that Toby had vanished?

From the window seat in her old bedroom, the moon was a silver orb in the sky. The little dancing figure spun in her gazebo as the music box played its haunting melody. Her book lay on the floor, forgotten as she stared at the full moon.

_I'll place the moon within your heart...._

She dreamed of the opulent ballroom again, its heavy chandeliers hung with strings of crystals that, when she looked at them closely, were actually strings of bitter tears. The same haunting music played in the background, guiding the steps of the masked dancers milling around her, guiding her steps. Someone was holding her in his arms, gently, tightly, lovingly. She snuggled closer, relishing the softness of velvet under her fingertips. Music surrounded them, distant, haunting, alien, and familiar. They swayed to its cadence, oblivious to everything.

A hand smoothed her hair, trailing along her jaw. The hand was gloved in leather, soft and sensual. "Trust to you dreams, Sarah. Trust to me," he murmured. His voice was deep and compelling, each word a caress.

"I do," she murmured. "I do believe in you. I do."

But the world was fading, crumbling into dust at her feet. She stood in absolute darkness, dust in her arms as her mysterious dance partner also collapsed and dissolved. Only the sound of his voice, calling her name, remained. She woke up with tears on her cheeks.

The voice was her father. He and her stepmother had returned.

She'd fallen asleep on the window seat. As she pushed her hair back from her face, white petals fell down in a shower onto her lap. They had drifted in through the window and clung to her hair, where they shone like little white stars in the darkness of her long black hair.

Outside, a white owl regarded her from its perch among the apple blossoms. It was so still, blending into the pale flowers of its surroundings. It watched as the girl (really a young woman) went to the door of the bedroom and spoke with someone, an older man, before shutting the door.

Leaning out to shut the window, Sarah paused. The night breeze brought the scent of apples, teasing her hair and brushing against her bare skin. Something pressed against her, pressed against her tongue, words that were waiting to be said. She felt that if she knew just what to words to say, something exciting and magical would happen. Something wonderful. But what were her right words?

As if it read her thoughts, the white owl took flight in a flurry of feathers and white flowers. With a gasp, Sarah fell backwards, her arms raised, but the owl was flying away, no longer visible in the darkness of the night.


	3. Once Upon a Dream

**Disclaimer: **

Standard disclaimers apply.

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson and its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

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**Chapter 2**

**Once Upon a Dream**

Sarah and Merlin went home to her apartment in the city the next day, where reigned supreme and alone. Home, where the bathroom counter was uncluttered by other people's possessions; where no one ate her cereal and left the box open; where no one fought her for control of the television; and where the contours of the ouch had been moulded around her body perfectly. The decor reflected a personality verging on the Puccini's Bohéme. The walls were covered with photographs of Sarah and her friends, laughing and overflowing with the love of life. It was the apartment of someone who was a little wild, someone who _lived_. Here, the air did not hum with the sighs of unrealized dreams.

The red light blinked on the answering machine. Sarah ignored it, dumping the duffel bag onto the chintz rug and throwing herself on the bed, pressing her cheek against her pillow so that she could stare at the photograph on her dresser. She was laughing, her arms around Toby, who was grinning, so happy to be eight years-old, so proud to be taken out by his beautiful, glamourous older sister. After a few minutes of snuffling around the apartment, Merlin jumped onto the bed with her, pressing his cold nose against her face before settling down on top of her bare feet.

The phone rang again. "I'm not here," Sarah mumbled.

"Hey, you've reached Sarah. I'm can't talk, so leave a message! Bye!" A beep.

"Sarah, this is Cheryl, your agent. Did you actually get any of my messages?" ("No.") "Have you thought any more about the part, because the production keeps calling me. Call me back."

Sarah buried her face into the pillow. A stage dramatization of the ever popular _Beauty and the Beast_ story, and the production wanted her to play the eponymous heroine. Years ago, Sarah would have cut off her right hand to be the heroine of a fairy tale. Yet the idea of Beauty confronting the Beast in his lonely castle filled her with a sense of dread she couldn't name, couldn't understand.

"It's only a story," Linda had told her, when she had confided her anxiety to her mother. "As an actress, it's not our job to criticize the story, but to bring it life."

_But that's exactly what I'm afraid of,_ Sarah thought as she studied her reflection in the mirror later that night. She'd changed into a nightgown after showering, a thin layer of silk that clung to breasts and hips and legs. Haunted green eyes under level dark eyebrows looked back at her in a pale face, wan from the past sleepless nights. Sheets of black hair fell around her face, softening its usual aloof expression. Her lips were pouting, a quirk she couldn't seem to control. She wondered if she was as beautiful as her mother, could ever be as beautiful as her mother.

Something heavy fell to the ground. Merlin sat down on the floor next to her open duffel bag, panting, while a silver object rolled at his feet. It was the gazebo music box.

"I thought I'd left you behind." Perplexed, Sarah picked it up. Perhaps Toby had put it in her duffel bag, the way he often managed to squash a toy into her luggage, so that she _had_ to go home again soon to return it. The princess seemed to be reaching its silver-sleeved arms out to her. Sarah put it down immediately, almost slamming it onto the dressing table.

It began to play, the jolt upsetting the mechanism. The familiar strains tinkled softly, hypnotic, almost sinister, almost sad. Guilt overwhelmed her. It was just a music box, and here she was, twenty-two years-old, and jumping at shadows. Shadows she couldn't even see. It was only a toy from her childhood.

She fell asleep to its music.

As she floated off into unconsciousness, she imagined that the answering machine began to play its messages, a series of beeps and garbled words. Then she heard one voice among the others, deep and masculine, caressing. "I have been generous, Sarah. I can be cruel. Just as cruel as your eyes can be."

She dreamed.

She was in the ballroom again, surrounded by dancing figures of ethereal beauty. They moved with lethargic grace through elegant dance patterns, caught in the trance of the music. Everything, the walls, the chandeliers and candelabras, the chairs, glittered with pearly iridescence, shifting lights of blue and pink and lavender. A goblin mask leered at her, and she jumped back in alarm. The painted mouth beneath the mask laughed.

The room melted around her. When it resettled, she was dancing in the arms of the faceless man again. His blond hair glowed against the dark blue velvet of his jacket, a halo of light around the blur where a face ought to be, if she could only remember what he looked like. She knew he had to be handsome, but she could not remember what color his eyes were, only that they were compelling.

And suddenly, she was standing alone again in the sea of masked dancers, turning this way and that in search of something, someone, and as the crowd moved and parted with the swell of music, she saw him, the faceless man. He strode towards her through the parted ranks of masked revelers, falling away from him in speechless reverence. They touched.

The room blurred again. This time, the room was empty. Music played without an orchestra. Chairs were scattered around uninhabited tables. When she turned, there he was again, striding towards her through an invisible crowd. The click of his booted heels against the marble floor echoed in the absence of drunk laughter. But he never reached her.

Sarah watched as though watching a tape being rewound and replayed. When she turned, she would see him. Yet each time, as he reached her, as they both held out a hand to the other, he vanished, and she found herself turning around to espy him again behind her, walking towards her in that empty ballroom....

Sarah turned again, her heart heavy with desperation. Yes, there he stood again in the center of a crowd that was not there, tall and dashing in his dark blue coat as radiant as the starry night. She had forgotten how heartbreakingly handsome he was, how dark and compelling his eyes were -- as blue as clear summer pond, deeper than the stormy winter sea. They looked at her now with such an intensity that made her knees weak, as if he could not believe his eyes. As if he looked at her and no one else, and what he saw took his breath away. He reached out his hand....

"No!"

The shout shook her awake, shivering and sweating in her bed. There was no ballroom, no mysterious faceless man. Yet she had reached out for him, her hand quivering in the air in front of her as it groped for a hand that wasn't there.

She spoke to the darkness. "Whoever you are, I wish you were more than a dream" she said fervently. She fell back into dreamless sleep.

Alighting silently, he crossed the room to stare down at the sleeping woman. In the pale glow of the moon, she looked younger than her twenty-two years, as young as fifteen and as vulnerable. One adorable foot peeked out from under the blanket. He tucked the blanket around her, hiding the errant foot, then checked himself for his foolishness. Had seven years made him soft? He could not afford to be soft.

He'd heard her make her wish, the very wish that had summoned him. Even if she had been half asleep, caught in the last throes of a dream that refused to release her, she had meant the words, plucking the right words from the darkness and tossing them into the night on the wings of hope and desire. Just as she had summoned him seven years ago with a careless wish -- had she not learned her lesson? Yet what's said was said, and Jareth was rather glad.

Seven years had fulfilled the promise of beauty he'd espied in the young girl of fifteen, and more. The chin was still stubborn, the lips still prone to pouting. But the roundness of adolescence had disappeared to reveal defined cheekbones and slender limbs and womanly hips. Even asleep, she managed to stoke his curiosity and interest. It was difficult to believe that this sleeping vulnerable creature had bested him once. He smiled. How dare she forget him, when he'd obsessed over her for the past seven years? But not to worry, he would set that all a-right. He plucked a crystal ball from the empty air, and with a breath, broke it into a million fragments that glittered as they fell over the sleeping figure.

She stirred, but did not wake. Struck by a sudden desire, the Goblin King put his face close to the sleeping one. She was so still, so peaceful. He'd failed once....

A sleeping hand stirred, batting at her cheek as she rolled over. With a scowl upon his handsome features, he stood up. On the moonlit floor, his shadow melted into the darkness and vanished.

* * * * *

"Good job today, cast. That's a wrap for today," the director called. "Don't forget, we open in two weeks!"

His words seemed to release the cast members from a spell. One by one they dropped personas with sighs of relief, reverting back to their original identities. The impoverished merchant became a debonair young man who drove a sports car. One wicked sister volunteered at the soup kitchen once a week, while the other worked part time at a vet clinic. The Beast was really Patrick, a shy unassuming young man and devoted boyfriend to feisty redheaded Amelia, who played the wicked fairy. He slung an arm around her shoulders casually, planting a kiss on her cheek.

And among this transforming group, one girl stood still with her eyes closed. Beauty counted from one to ten softly, under breath. Then she let out her breath, and opening her green eyes, became Sarah Williams again.

"Hey, Sarah. Patrick and I are going out for a drink with some friends, do you want to join us?" Amelia asked as the taller girl stuffed her possessions back into her shoulder bag. Patrick was already waiting by the door with his and Amerlia's backpacks. Other cast members had already begun to file out the door, racing towards other jobs that paid the bills.

"No, it's okay," Sarah replied, looking up from the scattered towels and change of clothes that littered the ground. "I've some errands to run."

Amelia frowned. "Well, if you're sure...."

Sarah shook her head, shrugging into her jacket. "Yes, I'm sure. Go on, Patrick's waiting."

"Alright then. G'night, Sarah." With a last wave, she ran towards her boyfriend. She'd tried. She'd tried more than once. Yet always, the green-eyed girl rebuffed her. Even during rehearsals, Sarah remained aloof, speaking only to point out ways to improve the performance. She was amiable, that much was true, but only on a surface level. She was never friendly. Perhaps Sarah was shy? Amelia dismissed the thought immediately. Girls as beautiful as Sarah were never shy. Reserved, yes, but never shy.

Sarah watched the redhead girl leave with a small pang. Amelia meant well, she knew. Perhaps if they'd met on a different set, they would have become fast friends. Yet the uneasiness she'd felt about the play was like an illness, spreading through the play until the cast members were also contaminated. She felt that if she let down her guard, whatever haunted her would creep up and catch her. She shouldered her own bag.

"You were wonderful today, Sarah. As always"

She turned. The director -- Luke -- stood in the aisle, his hands in his pockets. Outside of rehearsal, he seemed so, so... _normal_, unlike the strict director he played when the stage lights went on. Like the actors, he seemed to shed a persona and become himself again. "Thank you."

He shrugged, as if unsure what to say. He ran his hand through his hair, a gesture Sarah had noticed he made whenever he was at a loss for words. She wondered if he knew of his habit. Then after a pause, he burst out, "I saw you in _Pride and Prejudice._ You were a wonderful Elizabeth. It was why I insisted that you play Beauty."

"So you're saying that I've been type casted?" she asked jokingly as she shouldered her bag, tossing her long black hair out of the way of the strap. "Heroines from poor families? Silly sisters? Continual rejection of rich suitors? Eventual acceptance of a man who seemed disagreeable and then later positively sexy and rich?"

Luke relaxed and smiled. "No," he replied, encouraged by her joking tone. "Well, I suppose there are similarities between the two characters. I cast you because there's a certain wistfulness about you, as if you really do believe in fairy tales and 'happy ever afters.'"

The smile seemed to freeze on Sarah's face. "What makes you think I do?"

"Don't you?" Luke looked baffled. He played with his hair again. "You just seem like a figure out of a fairy tale to me. There's something magical about you, like something wonderful and thrilling to about to happen anytime soon. You could inspire knights to perform feats of valor for your hand. Kings would bow to you. Does it bother you?"

Sarah shook her head. "No, it doesn't," she said. "I used to want to be the princess in a story. I guess now I am, even if it's only make believe. But this time, I'm not the only one playing." She laughed a little at the revelation.

Luke looked at her, tall and slender, looking at him with direct green eyes. Not quite the eyes of a fairy tale princess, who waited to be rescued from her ivory tower atop a insurmountable glass mountain, but the eyes of a young woman who chose her own path and broke the curse on her seven brothers. They were the eyes of a heroine. "No, you're not," he said quietly.

His words seemed to break whatever spell that held her. She glanced down at her watch, exclaiming, "Goodness, is that time? I have to go."

He pulled out his car keys. "If you're in a hurry, I can give you a ride."

"No, thanks. I've got errands to run," she said, already halfway to the door.

"Yes, I heard," Luke said, perhaps a little wistfully. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow then."

With a last wave, she ran out the doors.

Luke sighed. Three weeks into rehearsal, and the leading lady still remained ever elusive. He picked up his copy of the script, dog eared and stained with coffee. It opened, unprompted, to the scene they'd been rehearsing.

"Haven't I been generous, Beauty?" he read. "Everything in my palace is yours. I have let your father go. I have given you anything you could desire. I have given you my roses. I have acted less like a Beast and more like a man, and I have done it all for you. I'm exhausted from living up to your expectations of me. Is that not generous?"

"Unfortunately, women are such capricious creatures, are they not?" an unfamiliar voice asked. Luke turned.

The speaker lounged in one of the seats to the left of the stage, where the shadows lay thick and heavy. Which may explain how Luke hadn't seen him. Yet now that he'd spotted him, Luke wondered how he could've missed the man. He was tall, even while sitting, his legs propped up in lazy elegance on the back of the chair in front of him. His entire being exuded power. It was in the lines of his body, the way he lounged in the cramped theatre chair as though it was a grand throne, the way he tilted his head as he spoke, in the expensive understatement of his black clothes. The careless grace, the damned self-assuredness. That shocking head of blond hair, so blond it was almost white.

"I wasn't aware that anyone else was here," Luke said, a slight hint of an accusation in his voice.

"You weren't? Oh dear," the blond man said. Luke wondered if he was being mocked. The blond man lowered his feet -- casually, gracefully -- and stood up. He _was_ tall, roughly six feet tall, and well-built, despite a slender frame. He was dressed simply, yet elegantly in a black suit, black tie, and black overcoat, like a member of the Mafia, or a discreet millionaire. And once you got past that shockingly pale hair -- it was almost a mullet, except somehow infinitely cooler, executed with European elegance -- he was exceedingly handsome.

_He must intimidate everyone he meets_, Luke thought. _He intimidates _me_!_ "I'm sorry, but I'm just closing up the theatre. You're going to have to leave."

Unperturbed by the less than subtle command, the stranger sauntered down the aisle, hands in pockets, to where Luke stood. "I was looking for someone. But I seem to have missed her," he said, ascending to the stage. He was _really_ tall, and the stage lights made him seem taller. "Instead, I found you. You're the director, aren't you."

It wasn't so much of a question than a statement, and Luke bristled at the arrogant confidence of the man and at the implied insult in the words -- not only was he so easy to read, but he was merely the director. No one of consequence. "Yes," he replied shortly. "What can I do for you?"

The stranger smiled, a slow lazy smile. "Oh, nothing," he replied. "That is to say, nothing at present. In fact, perhaps I can do something for _you_." So saying, he seemed to pull a small crystal ball out of the air.

It shone bright under the stage lights, almost glowing in the palm of a hand that Luke noticed dimly was gloved in black leather, like the rest of the man. He could almost see figures dancing under the reflective surface of the crystal, shifting patterns that flickered and vanished whenever he almost deciphered them. He leaned in closer. "What is that?" he asked, transfixed.

A wave of the hand, and the crystal seemed to dance, whirling here and there on the stranger's hand. The images flickered, always just out of sight. "A crystal," the man said succinctly and enigmatically, "nothing if you turn it this way, it will show you your dreams." The crystal ran along the back of his hand, disappearing only to appear in his other hand, always too fast for Luke to see the images in its depth. "Here." He tossed it into the air.

Luke caught it, warm from the stage light. Was he imagining that strange pulse under his fingertips? Yet when he looked at it, the orb sat obediently and still in his hands. "Why are you giving me this?" he asked. But the stranger had disappeared.

* * * * *

Luke dreamt of a castle covered with thorns. He rode a tall white horse, dressed in armor. The thorns parted before him, a path to the heart of the castle, where Sarah lay in enchanted sleep.

* * * * *

Opening her eyes, Sarah realized she was not in her room. Instead of the white plaster ceiling of her city apartment, she stared up at a velvet canopy. The curtains of the bed were hung with cobwebs. Beyond them, she could see walls of stone, decorated with faded tapestries and cracked wooden frames of dusty paintings, smothered with the weight of a hundred years. Dreams lay thick and heavy in the air around her, singing lullabies in whispered voices. She brushed them from her face, noticing then that her hand clutched a rose tightly, her fingers stained with dried blood.

"Where am I?" she murmured, sitting up.

"You're in my castle, beyond the Goblin City," a deep soft voice answered her.

He was sitting in the shadows, lounging regally on a sofa in an open white shirt, black waistcoat, and grey breeches tucked into polished black boots, elbows resting on his knees. His hands, gloved in black leather, supported a thoughtful chin. He had been watching her for a while. In her dreaming state She recognized him immediately.

"You're the Goblin King," she said.

"Yes."

She frowned. "How did I get here?" she asked.

He dropped his hand from his mouth. "I suppose you dreamt yourself here," he replied thoughtfully. There was no mirth or scorn in his voice. "Not that I regret your presence."

"It's been seven years. I thought you were-- that I might have--" she paused. "You're still here."

He lifted an elegant eyebrow. "That you might have killed me?" he asked. "No, as you can see, I'm still here.

She placed her feet, shoeless, onto the cold stone floor. It was slippery from the layer of dust that covered it, like a thin carpet that clung to her with each step. She was wearing a ridiculous, beautiful dress, all white silk and simplicity. It fell from her hips in shimmering cascades, swirling around her ankles in a white cloud. She shook her head. Poufy dresses and silk were very well in fantasies, but completely impractical outside of a ballroom. The Goblin King remained in his seat as she advanced upon him, looking up at her amusedly through his dark eyelashes as he leaned back into cushioned couch, unsettling decades of dust. He smiled at her lazily as she leaned close to him, studying him. After a moment searching his face, she said, "You look different."

Pale blue eyes, like chips of winter ice with a core of black, stared back at her. Sarah found herself drawn to his left eye, its pupil larger than the other, like an eye of black ringed with blue fire. It seemed to swallow everything it saw, and she imagined she was falling into its black depths. Sarah looked away hastily, noticing the sculpted cheekbones, the proud nose, and the strange markings around his eyes -- black wing tips that stretched to his temples. His skin glittered with unearthly lights. He looked the same, yet different, from the king she had faced seven years ago. Then, she had imagined a greater resemblance between him and her mother's lover. She had imagined herself a little in love with Jeremy. Now, the Goblin King's face was devoid of any similarity to the handsome face. Yet it was undeniably the same face and still undeniably beautiful. "That is because you are older," he replied. "Dreams mature along with the dreamer."

Her confusion cleared up, a little. It seemed to make sense. "Oh. That explains it." Dropping her hands, she sat down on the couch next to him, drawing her knees up and tucking her feet under the white skirt. She seemed blithely unaware of the dust stains she left upon the upholstery as she leaned a cheek against her knees. She stared at the Goblin King from under her lashes. "I _have_ been having really weird dreams lately."

"Yes, I know," he replied. "I sent them to you."

"_You?_ Why?" she demanded, raising her head as she leaned away. The dust rose in swirls, dancing around her like ethereal skirts.

"Calm down, Sarah," he said in mild irritation, "I'm not going to hurt you." The expression on her face only showed how little she believed him. He sighed, rubbing his mouth with a gloved hand. "Why must all my actions be guilty of underlying motives?"

"Because you're the Goblin King!" she replied honestly.

The corners of his mouth twitched. "Yes, I am," he agreed, "and you would not come back Underground, so I had to come fetch you. But I couldn't touch you unless you summoned me, so I sent you dreams. You made a wish."

"I beat you fair and square," she cried desperately.

Something flashed across his face, schooled and hidden instantly. But it remained in his voice, as sulky as a schoolboy who'd been assigned lines for a crime he hadn't committed. "Yes, you did, and you destroyed my Labyrinth in the process," he said sullenly. He stood up suddenly, and turning away from her, crossed the room to look out a window cut roughly into the stone wall.

"Sorry."

The look he gave her over his shoulder was half exasperated, half amused. But something outside caught his attention, and he turned away again. Setting one leg on the stone ledge, he leaned over the side to stare down the tower. "There comes your white knight to save you from the evil spell," he remarked, merrily, mischievously. "Just like in the story. The young hero, come to save the fair maiden with a kiss."

"Who are you talking about?" she asked, climbing off the couch to join him at the window.

But before she could peer out, he flung out an arm, barring her from the opening. She recoiled from the near contact. "Nothing of that," he told her pleasantly as he pulled a crystal out of the lingering dreams in the air. "That's not how the story happens." Blowing on the crystal gently, it disintegrated into glittering dust that floated through the air. She squeezed her eyes in surprise against the particles, yet she breathed involuntarily.

Drowsiness gripped her, and she staggered backwards. The back of her knees pressed against the bed, and she sat back down heavily. It was difficult to speak, difficult to stay sitting. She slumped down on the soft down mattress, her black hair fanning out around her face against the white sheets. "What... are you... doing?" she whispered.

"I'm simply helping the story along, my dear," he answered, sitting down beside her. "Good night, my sweet Sarah."

She slept.

When she woke up, it was morning. She lay in her own bed in her own apartment. She couldn't understand her dream at all.


	4. Roses

**Disclaimer: **

Standard disclaimers apply.

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson, George Lucas, Brian Froud and its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

--------------------------------

**Chapter 3 - Roses**

"One more time, please, Sarah. This time, I want you to be more defiant," Luke called out. "You're angry. The Beast threatened to kill your father, and now he tells you he would've let your father go. You've come here for nothing. You've been tricked."

Sarah pushed back her hair, biting her lip to keep back words of confrontation. The high color in her cheeks betrayed her frustration for having been the reason for stopping again. Patrick looked at her anxiously. She seemed on the verge of a temper tantrum. Her nostrils flared with controlled breaths, and her green eyes flashed as she stared at nothing in particular. He took a step back involuntarily, moving out of her range just in case her pent up frustration found a convenient vent in himself. Not that Sarah had ever acted as a bratty prima donna, but right now, she frightened him. Usually spot on in her performance, he could tell that Luke's continual dissatisfaction with her was pushing her to the boundaries of her patience. They'd already gone through the scene five times, and Luke had found a problem with each run through. He personally couldn't see the problem.

She nodded.

"I would've let him go," Patrick repeated, his voice deep and rumbling.

Sarah did not speak for a long time. Worried -- had she forgotten her lines? -- he turned around. She was staring at him with an expression he couldn't describe, anger, bewilderment, despair.... It caught him in mid turn, and he froze, unable to cope with the emotions she threw at him.

"You... you would have let him go?" she asked in a small voice, tottering as she took a small step towards him. Her hand reached out. It became a fist. "You would've let him go?" she repeated, louder. Her eyes flashed.

"Then why am I here?" she shouted, tearing at her hair as she fell to the ground. Patrick took a step, arms reached out to catch her.

"Cut. I'm sorry, Sarah, but that's not it."

Sarah looked up from beneath her curtain of hair. The cast had gathered around the stage, watching as Luke found fault and fault with the leading lady. She climbed back to her feet. She could feel the stares of the cast, like beams of light centered on her figure that thrust her into the foreground, could hear the unspoken comments, the criticism that they dared not utter.

Luke sat in the front row, his script in his hand as he regarded her with his frank brown eyes. Mud brown eyes, she thought cruelly. "Do you need a break?" he asked kindly.

It was kindly meant, but it was received resentfully. At that moment, his kindness irked her more than anything else would have. It brought back memories of her teenage years with her father and stepmother, always so practical and logical. It made her feel unreasonable and spoiled, even when she was not. She would have preferred for them to shout at each other, the way she and her mother did, forgetting the fight in five minutes. _A break?_ she thought incredulously. "No, let me try one more time," she replied. Her green eyes flashed with determination.

The director said nothing, merely waved at them to continue as he settled back into his seat.

Grabbing her water bottle from where it lay on the floor, she drank as she went over her lines in her head. How else could she say them? _You must find your own way into the role,_ someone had told her once. /iFind your way in and stay there./i But how was she to do that? Capping the bottle, Sarah took a deep breath, closing her eyes as she tried to remember if she'd ever felt the same resentment that Beauty felt towards the Beast. Almost unbidden, the words came into her mind.

_Sarah, beware. I have been generous. I can also be cruel. I have turned the world upside-down, and I have done it all for you! Isn't that generous?_

Unbidden, Patrick took another step back from her as she placed the bottle back on the floor and straightened up. Even without turning around, she frightened him with the tension writ in the lines of her body. When she turned around... it was enough to break his heart. "You would have let him go?" she asked. Her voice was curiously devoid of all emotion.

Luke leaned forward in his seat.

"You... you would have let him go," she repeated, savoring each word thoughtfully. She gave a bitter laugh. That laugh conveyed the strength of her despair. Wrapping her arms around herself, she laughed and laughed until Patrick wondered if Luke had finally driven her insane. He could only stare at her. Only when she raised her face to him did he realize that she was crying, her tears glistening brightly under the stage lights. Each drop sparkled as bright as diamonds, and he finally understood how in the original fairy tale, Beauty tear became a diamond of indeterminable worth. There was hate in her eyes, hate and bewilderment and despair and anger. Hate above all. He had not thought anyone could hate like that. He recoiled as if she'd struck him physically.

"Then what am I doing here?" she cried, demanded, sobbed. "What have I come here for, if not to save my father?"

Patrick wanted to hold her, to comfort her crying and tell her the world was alright. Except he was the Beast, and he could not touch the weeping maiden in front of him with his claws. He spread his hands helplessly. _My paws would rip you to shreds._ He would only repulse her if he tried to touch her anyways. "If you had not come, the knowledge that you did nothing to save your father would have poisoned your family until the sight of him became hateful," he replied. "He would be a daily reminder of your cowardice. It would have torn your family apart."

"And what now?" she retorted. "You've forced my father to believe that he's the coward, sacrificing his daughter so that he might live."

"I promised that you would not be harmed.... Ah, I see. The word of a Beast had no weight."

She said nothing, refusing to confirm or refute his words, turning her face away from him. Her arms were still wrapped around her, as if she might fall apart. She was falling apart, falling down, and the world was falling with her. Her only anchor was her hatred. "What happens now?" she asked tonelessly. "What is to become of me?"

Patrick dared to take a step forward, only a step. He bowed. "You are my honored guest, in my castle. Everything you want will be yours," he replied.

She looked at him then, a gaze filled with contempt. His bow faltered. It made him feel clumsy, brutish. It made him feel like a Beast. But then, that was what he was. It was a gaze that saw right through, past his pretty words and pretty gestures to the truth beneath. "Everything but my freedom," she said coldly. "I am not a guest. I am your prisoner. I thank you to remember that."

The silence buzzed, an absence of sound that waited with bated breath for something. It waited for a trigger, a signal, a gesture, or a word, perhaps. Then suddenly, someone began to clap. The applause rang in the emptiness, and the sound broke the spell. Luke was clapping, still leaning forward in his seat, a grin upon his face. And the spellbound audience became the members of the cast again, pressing hands against wildly beating hearts. Patrick let out a sigh of relief.

"That was wonderful, Sarah. Exactly the way I want you to do it when we open," Luke said.

But Sarah was still standing with her arms around herself, her long black hair hid her face from view. It was difficult to become Sarah Williams again, difficult to discard the hatred she had conjured. She hadn't known she could hate like that. She hadn't known that she had ever hated like that. Her breath came in heavy pants, Patrick noticed, her breasts swelling with each breath as if she fought to regain control of herself. She gave a small laugh, one hand rubbing her face tiredly. "I'm sorry, can I have a moment?" she called out. "I got a little carried away just now."

Luke was on his feet. "Yes, of course...."

But Sarah was already running off the stage into the wings. Patrick caught the eye of Amelia, who'd been one of the cast members watching. _What's with her?_ she mouthed at him.

He shrugged. He drew a line down his cheek with a finger. _No idea. I think she's crying._

Sarah stared at her reflection, watching as the water she'd splashed on her face trace the curve of her cheek in its slow trail downwards. Drops caught in her lashes sparkled like crystals. Her tears were lost among the dripping water, masqueraded and hidden. Just like that song Dad likes to play, "Rain and Tears," Sarah thought, reaching up to trace a water trail with a finger.

She heard the door slam behind her, then Amelia's cautious voice. "Sarah, are you alright?"

The dark haired girl whirled around, eyes opened wide. They softened at the sight of the petite redhead, but it was a momentarily lapse before she regained her composure. Slipping back on her mask of cool indifference, poised and aloof, Sarah turned back towards the mirror, "Yes, I'm alright," she said. "It's just a silly thing, and I got something in my eye."

Amelia lost her patience. "You _are_ being silly," she snapped. "I'm trying to nice and considerate here, and you just blow me off! I don't even know why I bother. You never talk to me, you always say no when I ask you to come out with us. You are a selfish, silly snob!"

She was surprised by the sound of Sarah laughing. It was half between a sob and a laugh. "Yes, I know," Sarah sniffed ruefully. "You're a nice person, Amelia. You're nicer than I deserve."

Amelia left the doorway and approached her. Sarah made no move to shy away. "Then why are you always like that? Like... like you don't want to talk to us?" she asked.

"It's complicated," Sarah murmured, staring at the way the water drained out of the sink. She turned off the faucet. The stream became a trickle, swirling in a mini eddy down through the drain. "It's the play. I feel like something awful is going to happen, and if I relax, if I let down my guards and start to enjoy it, it'll swallow me up. I'm worried that it'll become... _alive_. I have to set boundaries. This is work. I can't let it become a part of my life."

"It's only make-believe," Amelia said. She wondered if she dared to put a hand on Sarah's shoulder. Hugging her was out of the question. Instead, she leaned against the neighboring sink in order to look at Sarah's face. The brunette's expression was carefully blank, betraying nothing. It was difficult to believe that she had been crying only moments before. "But you _have_ to let yourself become part of the story. It's not _real_. It's just a story."

_The story_.... Sarah forced a weak smile. "I know. I think everyone's probably wondering where we are. Let's go back."

_The problem with Sarah,_ Amelia thought later as she watched the dark haired girl go through another scene, this time with Kyle, the merchant, _is that her imagination is too vivid. It's only a play. It's only pretend._

_Yes, but if you believe in something long enough and hard enough, it'll often become true,_ a voice said within her.

"What are you thinking about?" Patrick asked, dropping a kiss on her cheek as he offered her his water bottle and a chocolate bar, her kryptonite and the bane of her existence.

She smiled up at him. He kissed her mouth. "Nothing," she said, unwrapping the chocolate bar and biting into it eagerly. "Just that Sarah is so hard to understand. She's positively the best actress I've ever seen, but it's a little intense. If the words were written down in the script, I would have thought she meant every word."

"No," Patrick said quietly. "I was playing opposite her, and I tell you, _she meant everything she said._ It frightened me."

Amelia raised her eyebrow skeptical, yet her eyes were open wide, and she transfered her gaze from him to the dark haired girl under the stage lights, where Sarah held out her empty hands in supplication. Her green eyes were full of sorrow, and also determination.

"I will go," she said firmly. "It was my foolish wish. I must face the consequences."

----------------------------------------------------

"Thanks, everyone. That's it for today," Luke announced at the end of the day. "I'll see you on Monday. Sarah, can you stay a few more minutes? I want to talk to you."

The green eyed girl paused in the middle of slinging her bag onto her shoulders, then shrugged. She smiled at the cast members who patted her arm, wishing her a good night. Amelia and Patrick lingered at the door, the petite Irish girl wondering if the other girl wanted company, but Sarah simply shook her head. They left, leaving Luke and Sarah alone in the theatre.

"Have a seat," he said, pointing at a chair. She shook her head. He sighed, dropping in the chair he'd offered and contemplated her.

She was cool and aloof, as she always was. He wondered how a young girl, only twenty two years old, could be so collected and composed. Her long black hair was held back from her face with a barrette, sharply in contrast with the delicate paleness of her skin. She looked at him fearlessly and expectantly with her direct green eyes. He wondered if she'd ever looked at anyone with a soft expression in those green eyes.

"Sarah, are you alright?" he said at last.

"Yes, of course," she said, surprised. "Why wouldn't I be?"

She seemed sincere. But then, he could never be sure with Sarah. She was too good an actress for him to take her at her word. "You seemed... troubled this morning, during that scene," he said delicately.

Sarah blinked, and then she began to laughed. "Oh, that," she said, waving a hand. "I slept badly last night, and after making myself cry, I couldn't get myself to stop. I'm a really messy crier, you might have noticed."

"I see," Luke said slowly. He didn't really, but he wasn't sure he wanted to point out that she'd managed her lines without tears before running off the stage. "Well, promise me you'll get a good night's sleep before opening night, at the very least. We can't afford to let you have breaks between scenes in the live show."

"Of course, sir," she said. "It was just a really odd dream. I'm sure it won't happen again."

"An odd dream?"

Sarah turned around in the middle of collecting her bag. "Probably just my imagination running wild," she said. "You know how I said I love fairy tales? I dreamed that I was sleeping in a castle covered with thorns."

Luke went absolutely still. "Is that all?" he asked.

Sarah thought for a moment. "I think so. I woke up in the dream, and there was someone... someone familiar...." She shook her head. "I can't remember. It's getting away from me."

"I see. Unfortunately, it's the wrong fairy tale. Good night, Sarah."

"Good night, Luke. Have a good weekend."

He watched her leave. Was it a coincidence that they'd had the same dream? Yet in his dream, he had not reached the sleeping princess. He'd wandered empty halls and chambered, searching.... At last, he came to a door at the end of a long corridor, the last door. When he'd opened it, he'd woken up in his bed at home.

Yet she had woken up in her dream. By whom? "Stop it, Luke," he told himself sharply. "You're behaving like a lovesick teenage girl. It's probably not even the same dream. "

It was perfectly good advice. Yet he found himself reaching into his pocket and drawing out the crystal ball. He'd waited for the mysterious stranger to reappear and claim back his own. But it's only been a day, he told himself. Why did he give me this?

He imagined that he saw a princess standing upon a tower, looking out over her kingdom. A prince crept silently upon her with love on his lips. But when he looked closer, they vanished.

----------------------------------------------------

She came home to find a humongous and embarrassing bouquet of red roses waiting for her on the doorstep. Long stemmed and wrapped in black ribbon, the petals were the deep red of hearts blood and passion. They were beautiful, fragrant with a wild, deep and heavy aroma that wrapped around her like an invisible embrace. A card proclaimed, "To Beauty." There was no name. She fetched a vase absent-mindedly, wondering what to do with the roses. In the end, she laid them out throughout the apartment, their scent dispersing through the air.

The rose of the deepest red she set beside her bed, next to the photograph of her and her brother. It nodded drowsily, as though standing protectively over the sleeping figure. One petal fell.

----------------------------------------------------

That night, she dreamed that she was standing atop the tallest tower of the castle. Rose grew riotous over the stone parapets, their deep mysterious fragrance so tangible she could practically taste it. The land spread out below her feet, dark and mysterious under the light of the stars in the sky, stars she didn't recognize. They glittered as brilliantly as diamonds in the sky. As in the way of dreams, she still wore her nightgown. And the world stretched out below her.

"How are you enjoying the view?" a deep voice asked gently behind her.

She turned around to see him standing behind a few steps behind her, dressed elegantly in a red shirt, black waistcoat, and black breeches tucked into black boots polished so brightly that they reflected the stars in the sky. The red silk of his shirt glistened like blood in the moonlight.

"It's beautiful," she replied, turning back to look between the parapets. "Even in the moonlight, everything looks... peaceful. I never thought it could look so tranquil."

"You seem to assume that everything in my kingdom is less than so."

He was behind her. She could feel him, her senses tingling in awareness of his presence, so self-assured, so inimitable, and so untamable. And so close to her. Power emanated from his very being, threatening to possess her. She looked up at him, his profile cold and serene in the wane light. He might as well have been carved out of marble, he was so still and so beautiful to see. He could have been ice. Sensing her gaze, he looked back, one eyebrow raised in elegant skepticism.

"You have given me little reason to suppose otherwise," she replied calmly.

"I suppose I have," the Goblin King conceded. "How do you like my Labyrinth now, when you are free to admire it without distractions?"

She looked back out over the world. There were the hedge gardens in their immaculate glory, riddled with fountains of silver water. The forests with their exotic trees of many colors, glittering with breathing lights in the moon's dim glow. Even the treacherous bog lay calm and deceptively beautiful, belying its odiferous nature. To the other side, there were gardens she'd never explored, filled with flowers that blazed even in the night. A pool glistened, its calm surface a silver mirror reflecting the starry night. She could hear something singing, its beautiful voice piercing the night like a golden arrow. Somewhere in that wonderland, her friends were perchance dreaming.

"Very much," she answered truthfully, a little dreamily. "It is the stuff of dreams. No, I couldn't even begin to dream of such things!"

He moved a little closer, and the humming in her blood grew stronger, as if she could feel him in her bloodstream, under her skin. He stood next to her, leaning casually on the parapets. There was something wild about the scent of him, it sent a thrill down her spine. "But you have," he murmured. When she made no answer, he turned and smiled down at her. He was still infuriatingly tall. "I'm glad you like it though."

"What do you mean, I have?" she asked instead, with the rare clairvoyance of dreams. She stepped back from the parapets.

He looked at her beseechingly. "Can't we just enjoy the view?" he pleaded.

"No. What do you mean I have? Why am I here?" Sarah heard herself demand. Apparently her dream self knew something she didn't. "I thought I left all this behind me. _I beat you._"

Something -- anger? irritation? -- flashed in his dark eyes, but he conquered it. "We've gone over that already," he reminded her mildly.

"Then why have you brought me here? Should you..." she paused over the words. "Shouldn't you hate me? What I did to you...."

"Yes, I've been humbled by you. I hated you then, but it is hard to hate someone that you need, and unfortunately, I need you," he admitted bitterly. "Come here, Sarah. Look." He gestured at the scenery below the parapets of the tower.

"All this, everything you see is part of your imagination. Each and every detail of my Labyrinth, every creature inhabiting its walls, was determined by the toys and books in your room. You even conjured me. That is the strength of your dreams, Sarah. They were so strong that they pulled me out of my sleep, forcing this form on me and on this world. This Underground world is your world."

"My world?" she repeated, gazing over the landscape sprawling below her. Yes... she had once had a stuffed toy that looked exactly like Sir Didymus. She'd given it to Toby a long time ago, but the dwarfish bookend remained, guarding over her books in her apartment. The dizzying Escher poster next to her bed, an exact depiction of the Goblin King's castle, remained in her father's house. Now she knew why she couldn't bear to look at it anymore, couldn't bear to throw it away. Even the gentle red monster, Ludo, had been inspired from the books she'd given Toby.

The golden-silver head bent down close to her. "Yours," he murmured. Reaching out before her, he broke off the hanging head of a rose with petals of deepest red and offered it to her. Its petals glistened wetly in the moonlight, like petals of blood. He watched, fascinated, at the way her eyelashes brushed against her cheek when she blinked. The heady scent of her perfume, even more potent than the scent of the roses, sent him reeling in desire. "And everything in it, including me. Everything in this world is yours. If you want it."

_If you want me...._

"And if I say no?" she asked, turning to face him. He was so close! She wished he wouldn't look at her in quite that way, with eyes that were at once so familiar and so alien. It was hard to describe his expression, so intent and piercing. It was as if when he looked at her, he saw no one and nothing else. The world has shrunk for him to only the confines of the tower and its two occupants. As if she were the center of his universe. She didn't know how to react.

His eyebrows knotted, and he drew back, as if her words had cut apart something that had held them together. His hand clenched, crushing the rose head and scattering the petals. In the dark, they looked like drops of his blood. Opening his hand, he let them scatter in the wind. "Nothing," he replied shortly. "You will stop having your strange dreams, and the Underground will go on, just as it has for the past seven years without you. But it will be the poorer for lack of your dreams to sustain it. Even I am not so cruel as to wish such a fate upon this world, Sarah, and I can be cruel."

The silence hung heavy in the air, pregnant with unspoken sentiments. They pressed down on her, weighed with the hopes and desires of the past seven years. Was she maybe imagining the expression written across the king's handsome face? Had she maybe imagined his earlier expression? The wind rose, blowing her hair into her face and whipping his hair into a golden halo. The Goblin King's face was once again impassive, inscrutable.

"Night is cold Underground," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "You should go back."

"I think I can do whatever I want in my world," Sarah snapped, temper rising at his condescension. She straightened and somehow managed to look dignified even in nightgown that did little to shield her from the chill of the night air and the probing eyes of the man looking at her. He merely raised an eyebrow, his lips curving. Sarah refused to blush.

"You would stay up here with me? Alone?" he asked lightly. When she made no protest, he sighed. A few steps, and he was beside her, settling a heavy cloak darker than night around her shoulders. His hands seemed to linger, just briefly, upon her shoulders as he murmured in her ear, "Consider yourself warned."

They stood side by side at the parapets until the thirteenth hour struck.

She woke up in her own room Aboveground, the sunlight dancing on the ceiling and walls of the bedroom in familiar patterns. The pervading scent of roses came from the one weeping rose by her bed. She'd been wakened by the sound of something scrabbling desperately at the covers. Merlin. Sensing that his owner was up, he jumped onto the bed and sat there, his tongue sticking out. Shoving Merlin aside gently, Sarah covered her face with an arm.

"It was a dream," she murmured to herself. "It was a dream, it was a dream...."

An oddly vivid dream, she conceded later, setting down the dog bowl before an enthusiastic and starving Merlin. Sometimes she wondered how a creature of his size could eat so much. But the dream teased at the edge of her consciousness. Exceedingly detailed and surprisingly _coherent,_ for a dream. She remembered having dreams like that when she was a child, still playing Make Believe in her homemade costumes and her toys, reenacting scenes from her favorite book _The Labyrinth_ -- dreams so vivid that the waking world seemed grey in contrast. Dreams in which the sky was pink, and the breeze hummed with the song of flowers. A man harvested stars from the purple night sky, which became diamonds in his sack.

She'd even dreamt of _The Labyrinth_ once, the elaborate maze that sheltered the castle of the Goblin King. She remembered crying when she'd woken up from that dream, remembered the horrifying sense of loss when she'd opened her eyes to see the walls of an ordinary house, remembered feeling that a part of her life had ended forever.

A nudge against her leg recalled Sarah to the world. Merlin looked at her beseechingly, cocking his head in a way he knew she couldn't resist. _Walk?_ Sarah shook her head, shaking the lingering thoughts away, and ruffled Merlin's fur. "Aren't you just so adorable today?" she asked. His tail wagged back and forth furiously. "Go get your leash then, Merlin. _Leash._"

Later that day, the dog walked and fed, Sarah curled up on her couch with a much battered copy of _The Phantom of the Opera_ by Gaston Leroux. A friend had dragged her to see the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical during college, and she had fallen in love immediately with the tragic story of the eponymous protagonist, who was something between the hero and the villain, living in his underground labyrinth beneath the Opera House until love spurred him to kidnap a beautiful opera singer. She'd walked about the theatre with tears on her cheeks, and the Phantom's pledge of love echoing in her mind. She'd bought the soundtrack and the book immediately.

Lying in a patch of sunlight, she read drowsily. A vase of roses sat by her elbow. She imagined the room covered with roses, red and white and pink and deepest red, the way the Phantom's lair had been covered when Christine first entered. Even in the book, the Phantom loomed as a mysterious and powerful figure. She imagined him as tall, always well dressed, his every gesture graceful and tense with controlled strength. Even though he may be disfigured, his eyes must surely be compelling, perhaps a little unusual. A little dangerous, maybe even a little cruel, but it only added to his allure.

A little like the Goblin King of _The Labyrinth._

But the Phantom had a name. Erik. What was the name of the Goblin King? She knew he had to have a name, but she could not remember it. She would have to find the book and look it up. How strange that she should forget that detail, when she knew the entire book by heart. Now that she thought about it, she couldn't remember the book ever mentioning his name. How odd! Then why did she feel for sure that he had a name?

"But it's not my true name," he said, lounging in the armchair across from her. " My real name, the name that my mother gave me at my birth, is lost to time. Like the Erik of your book, I came into my present name quite accidentally."

"But I can't remember even that!" she protested.

He smiled. It was a sad smile. "You will remember eventually," he assured her. "Now you should wake up, or else you'll sleep the entire day away."

Obediently, she opened her eyes. There was no one in the armchair. The room was cast in the rubescent glow of the setting sun. She found that she had dropped her book. Instead, she was clutching the stem of a white rose, the petals of which were stained red from a prick in her finger.

----------------------------------------------------

"Darling, you don't seem very excited about the play," Linda Williams complained. "It's opening this week."

Sarah picked at her salad. "It's just a play, Mom."

"But you're the leading lady!" Linda said. "You're making a name for yourself in the business, dear. You should be proud of yourself. First Elizabeth Bennett, now Beauty. I heard that Luke Gerard is a tough director, and he chose _you_ specifically."

"He chose me on my looks, not my acting skills," Sarah argued dejectedly, mashing the hapless avocado into mush.

Linda frowned, looking closer at her daughter. While some might consider the casting of her daughter based on looks alone a compliment, Linda understood. Sarah never did anything by halves. A perfectionist and deeply proud, Sarah wanted to be credited for her ability, not for beauty or connections. She'd even adopted a stage name, in order to hide the connection between her and Linda. "He still wouldn't have cast you if you were horrible," Linda said. "So that's not what's bothering you."

Her beautiful daughter sighed, throwing down her fork in defeat. The salad refused to be eaten. "I don't know how to describe it," she blurted out. "I know what you said about bringing the story to life, but I feel like it's_ taking over me._ Every time, it's harder and harder to remember how to be Sarah Williams again, and we haven't even gotten to dress rehearsals yet. I've even begun to have really strange dreams."

Linda reached forward. "What sort of dreams?" she asked quietly.

"Fairy tale dreams," Sarah answered. "Like the ones I used to have when I was smaller, and I'm the princess. I'm dancing in the most beautiful dress I can imagine with a handsome partner. In another dream, I was sleep in a castle covered with roses and thorns. And always, I seem to know something in my dreams that I don't understand when I wake up."

"What sort of things?" Linda pressed.

Sarah closed her eyes. The images came readily, faded glittering pictures that melted into one another, never holding shape for long. "Something that happened before, except I can't remember," she said. "Something important. Something special, maybe even wonderful. And there's a man, and he's beautiful. I know it's odd to describe a man as beautiful, but there's no other word for it. He's the Goblin King, from the goblin stories you used to read me when I was younger, and we talk about things that I don't remember."

"Maybe it's better you don't," she heard her mother say. When she opened her eyes, she saw that her mother was very pale, even under her make-up. "It's only a dream, sweetheart. Your imagination running wild."

"But these dreams are so... coherent. Always the same theme, always the same man. Always the same underlying forgotten memory," Sarah said, shaking her head as though to clear the cobwebs from her thoughts.

Linda gripped Sarah's hand in hers. "Sarah, listen," she whispered fiercely. "They are just dreams. They can't harm you. Forget about this man, this...this Goblin King. Goblins don't really exist. The play, it's not _real_. It's just a story. When you take off your costume, you're not part of it anymore. _None of it is real._"

Sarah stared at Linda in amazement. She had never heard her mother speak so passionately, not off the stage anyways. But the older woman's hazel eyes were blazing, and the hand that held hers was white to the bone. "Mom...."

But Linda had already released her and was signaling to the waiter to bring them coffee. "Coffee or tea?" she asked. "And I'd like one of those delightful cheesecakes, please. Sarah, you must try their cheesecakes. By the way, Jeremy wants to throw you a party to celebrate the play."

On her way home that evening, she ran into Luke.

He was pacing the street outside her apartment, one hand in the pocket of his jeans as he contemplated the buildings and building numbers. The other hand clutched a piece of paper, yellow under the ghastly glow of the streetlamps. It illuminated strands of copper in his brown hair, almost black in the dimness. She could see him muttering under his breath. He seemed to be searching for something.

"Luke. What are you doing here?" she asked, interrupting his thoughts.

He turned, his manner almost guilty. "Sarah," he greeted, hastily shoving the note into his pocket as he straightened his blazer. "Fancy seeing you here."

"I live in this area," she said, eyes narrowing -- just a little! -- skeptically. "Are you lost? You look lost."

"Oh, right," he said, a little too quickly. He ran his hand through his hair, messing it up even more as he laughed nervously. "Right. Maybe a little. I heard that there's a really great restaurant place here, called _Sophia_. I can't seem to find it."

Sarah laughed. It was a kindly laugh, not meant to mock the director, and he took no offense. He smiled hesitantly. "You're not that lost," she said, her green eyes twinkling. She pointed in the direction she'd come from. "_Sophia_ is that way, right around the corner, but they're closed now. I was just there. I hope you weren't meeting someone there?"

He ran a hand through his brown hair again, an unconscious gesture. "Just my luck!" he declared with a resigned shrug. "I guess I'll have to try somewhere else then. No, just myself. Thank goodness, huh?"

"I live right here," Sarah found herself saying. He looked so dejected, almost embarrassed that he couldn't find a restaurant. She gestured at the door next to them. "Why don't you come up? You came all the way out here, and I have cheesecake from _Sophia_."

"I don't want to impose," he said slowly, hesitantly, even as he lingered.

"It's okay," she said. She thrust the bag of leftovers at him as she dug for her keys. "We're friends, aren't we?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Are we?" he asked. "I thought we just worked together."

"Well, I see no reason not to be friends," she said as she found her keys and unlocked the door. "So are you coming in or not?"

He followed her up the short flight of stairs into a flat for which he wasn't prepared. Not that he could say what he'd been expecting. Rococo furnishings, perhaps, and ornate gilt frames around the mirrors and windows. Crystal chandeliers. A small palace, fit for a princess or at least a duchess. No, instead what he encountered was an ordinary flat. The furniture was modest and _normal_. Large cushions on top of the plump couch, hard wood floors, and roses everywhere. The roses conformed more to his expectations.

"Nice place," he said, following her into the kitchen.

There were roses in the kitchen too, and a dog. It was rather old, yet still young enough to be playful. It perked up at the sight of him, contemplating. It decided that he was alright. It came forward, nose sniffing hesitantly as it submitted itself to be petted. "Your dog?"

"Whose else?" Sarah replied. "His name's Merlin, and he's absolutely shameless." She said this without rancor as she opened cabinets and selected plates for the cheesecake.

"He seems quite intelligent." True enough, the dog seemed to realize they were discussing him. He sat very politely on the floor and wagged his tail. His eyes gazed lovingly and adoringly at his mistress through his heavy fur.

"It's because he's intelligent that he's shameless," Sarah said, turning around with two plates of cake. "He knows exactly what he's doing. We'll eat in the living room, can you take these out while I make coffee? And don't let him have any cake, I already fed him today."

Luke obeyed. Merlin watched him leave sadly with the cheesecake, but did not follow. He had caught the warning tone in his mistress's voice and was wise enough to remain in the kitchen. If he looked cute, she might feed him something, a treat.

Setting the cake down on the low coffee table, Luke examined the room. There were photographs on the wall, pictures of Sarah and her friends. They showed a girl vastly different from the one he knew, laughing at the camera while the wind whipped her black hair into streaming eddies. He turned his attention to the bookshelf, heavy with titles such as Alice in Wonderland, Through the Looking Glass, The Complete Collection of Hans Christian Andersen. He smiled -- this was more like the Sarah he imagined. Sitting back on the couch, Luke looked around him at the profusion of roses. They were all red, the heads hanging with heaviness.

"I was right, you are a fairy tales kind of girl," he told her when she came back with two steaming mugs in her hand. He accepted his, pointing at the pile of books. "I didn't think there were so many fairy stores in the world!"

Sarah smiled wryly, drawing her feet up under her as she settled into her armchair. "You could say it's the work of many years," she replied. "I've had most of those books since I was young. Karen, my stepmother, thinks I'm too old for fairy stories, but I don't know. I think they're much deeper than most people think."

"Be kind to strangers, and you'll be rewarded with riches?" Luke asked teasingly.

"Or at least you won't be placed under a curse," she replied in the same tone. "It's more than just princesses and princes and magic spells. They're the culmination of folk superstition and forgotten history. Stories to warn children to behave, or to give hope to the destitute, filtered through repetition until the names were lost, and all we have left are these pretty stories we tell children. What?"

Luke was shaking his head. "Nothing. I just think you're pretty amazing," he told her. "The way that you look at these stories and see things that nobody else does."

Sarah smiled. "You think I'm being silly," she observed. "It's okay, I'm used to it. Karen always thought I was too silly about fairy stories, and she was right, I was. I still am, I suppose."

"And now you get to be the heroine of one."

"Oh, I like to think that we are all living in our personal fairy story," Sarah said. "It's just whether or not we can see the magic in our lives to notice."

She never looked more beautiful to him then when she said those words, surrounded by a sea of roses as she smiled and spoke about magic. It was like looking at a painting of a princess, untenable and heartbreaking, because he could see that she meant the words, that she could see magic in the world, and if he could reach her somehow, he would be able to see it too. Hastily, he turned his attention back to the cheesecake.

"You must love roses," he mentioned casually after a few bites, waving his fork at the floral display. "Just like Beauty."

"They were a gift," Sarah replied.

"From?"

She shrugged. "No idea. There was no name on the card," she said, setting her mug down on the end table as she showed him the card. "I actually wondered if it might be someone from the cast. The card said 'To Beauty.'"

Luke made a private note to make rehearsals difficult for the culprit. "Well, it wasn't me," he said. "Mine's coming to you on opening night."

"Luke." She laughed.

He set down the coffee cup on the little table, rising to his feet. "I'm perfectly serious," he said. The scent of roses mixed with the aroma of coffee filled his nostrils with a wild and glorious fever of passion. Roses for love. Roses for passion. Roses to bind together two unlikely strangers. "Why shouldn't I send you flowers on opening night?"

She looked down, unwilling to meet his eyes. "You're the director," she said a little helplessly, as if she could think of no other reason.

"And you're my leading lady," he countered. "Think of it as a token of my appreciation."

He crouched down in front of her, sitting in the armchair as though on a throne. He imagined himself a knight, kneeling before his sovereign queen and lady. Sir Lancelot and Lady Guinevere. "I was going to wait until opening night," he said huskily. "But I may as well speak now. Sarah, you drive me insane. I didn't give you the part of Beauty so that I could hit on you, I promise. But seeing you everyday and watching you, I couldn't help it. Rehearsals are the best part of my day, because I get to see you. I don't want much, but if you think you could give me a chance, I would be your _slave._"

She said nothing to stop him, and even after he finished, remained silent. Her face was impassive, maybe a little paler than usual. It might have been the light. Then suddenly, taking him by surprise, she leaned down and kissed him on the mouth.

It was not a passionate kiss, no proclamation of love or lustful desire. It was sweet and gentle, an affectionate caress of lips against lips. It was a little uncertain, as if she did not know what to expect with the kiss. It was heaven for Luke, and he closed his eyes as he began to kiss her back.

She pulled away, and he could not help leaning forward in his desire to follow her. Opening his eyes, he was greeted with her expression of consternation. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head. "Nothing, nothing. It's just... please don't take this the wrong way, but I can't give you answer right now. I like you, Luke, but I don't know if it's enough to say yes. I don't know you very well, so I can't answer you immediately and be fair to us both."

"And the kiss?"

Sarah gave him a tiny smile. "Consider that you've passed the first test?" she offered jokingly.

"Then I'll wait for an answer," he said fervently. "Don't worry, I'll let myself out. Good night, Sarah."

"Good night, Luke." She didn't move as he left and closed the door behind him. She sat in her armchair for long minutes, staring out the window at the stars. Finally, she sighed and went to bed.


	5. To the Stars

**Disclaimer: **

Standard disclaimers apply.

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson and its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

--------------------------------

**Chapter 4 **

**To the Stars**

She dreamed again of the Goblin King that night. This time, however, she wore a heavy cloak of gleaming velvet the color of the deep forest, a deeper shade of green than his emerald green frock coat. A river bore floating tea lights in crystal jars past them, little ships of light that illuminated the dark with a soft amber glow. They rested on a blanket on a grassy knoll, and he would point out the constellations to her with a hand gloved in white leather, constellations different from the stars Aboveground.

His voice was low and sensual in her ear, intimate in its softness. This close to her, his breath was the gentlest caress against the back of her neck. "That is the constellation of the Pursued Maiden," he murmured almost lovingly, "whose beauty outshone the stars. That star there, which forms the heart of the maiden, is the brightest star in the sky, which we call Syrelis, after the maiden herself. Her beauty was so great that the great king, Korus, fell in love with her. He offered her wealth, jewels, everything he had and more. He offered her himself. But Syrelis refused the king. Yet he came again and offered her the world. Syrelis refused him again.

"He came again, a third time. This time, he offered beautiful Syrelis her dreams, everything she'd ever wanted. Syrelis looked at him with tears in her eyes and refused him again. And fearful that he would come again and offer what could not be offered, what should not be offered, knowing that she might not have the strength to refuse him one more time, she ran. Korus gave chase."

"Why is he chasing her if she doesn't want him?" Sarah demanded, caught in the magic of the story and in the spell of his voice.

The Goblin King paused in his storytelling, caught by surprise. It in the nature of men to give chase, to fight for what they wanted. He didn't know any stories of the men who gave up. "Perhaps he hopes that he'll catch her eventually?" he offered slowly, even hesitantly, his words pregnant with hidden questions that Sarah did not hear.

"If Korus truly loved Syrelis, shouldn't he respect her feelings?" Sarah argued, twisting onto her side so she could see the face of the golden haired man propped on one silken elbow next to her. But it was lost in shadows hollowed by the amber lights. "Why is he chasing her if she already rejected him?"

He stirred, leaning back slightly, but enough that the lights illuminated his face again. The expression he returned was carefully blank, revealing nothing beyond haughty amusement and mild irritation. "Perhaps she never completely rejected him, and he hopes that he will win her eventually," he replied. "Do you want to hear the rest of the story or not?"

She bit her lip.

He turned back to the sky, laughter silent on his lips as he leaned forward to rest his forearm atop one drawn up knee. The gesture was graceful and controlled, belying his long limbs that would have made other men ungainly. "Korus chased Syrelis over glen and meadow and moutain, over the river, over the seas. Always she remained in front of him, never quite in his grasp, and yet never out of his sight.

"On the tallest mountain, Korus stumbled. Fear lanced his heart. Should Syrelis vanish from his sight in his momentary lapse.... But when he looked up, there she shone, just in sight over the horizon as she paused for breath. He gave chase again.

"They ran, faster than the fleetest footed dear, faster than the wind. Faster and faster she ran, and faster and faster he chased. They run, so fast that the world falls behind them into the distance, and their bodies fall away until all that is left is the memory of the chase."

His words died into a contemplative silence. Sarah was strangely quiet. When she did not speak for at least a minute, he turned to look at her. She had turned over onto her stomach, turning her back to the shining stars in the sky as she rested her chin on her folded arms, contemplating something only she could see. "I don't think that Syrelis really wanted to run from Korus," she said at last.

"Oh?"

"You said, she always somehow remained just close enough that Korus could see her, but never close enough that he could actually catch her. Even when he stumbled, she could've escaped him, but she chose that moment to pause of breath," Sarah pointed out, rolling onto her side so that she could look into his dark eyes. "You said that she ran because she was afraid she'd say yes if he asked her again."

"Yes."

"So perhaps Syrelis actually loved Korus back," Sarah concluded in one rushed breath. She paused, and the silence yawned in that momentarily lapse before she continued more slowly. "Yes, I think she did. And Korus knew, which is why he chased her when she ran."

He was surprised. But he shouldn't be, not when it came to Sarah and fairy stories. Her love for them was a constant in the ever shifting world of her dreams, and he would always be able to rely on that. He smiled. "Then why did she run, when he offered her himself, the world, everything she wanted?" he asked in return.

She did not respond immediately. When she spoke at last, the words were a blow.

"He never told her that he loved her."

It was his turn to pause, slightly. When he spoke again, his voice was light, curious. "And do you think, if Korus told her that he loved her, she would have said yes?"

"Well, it might have helped," she replied. "Now tell me about that star, over there."

"That's not an answer." His tone was accusatory.

"Because I don't know what the answer is," Sarah said carelessly. "Maybe the words didn't have to be said, maybe there were other circumstances beyond love. Differences of station, politics, that kind of thing. Details that have been lost in the retelling."

It was his turn to be silent, gazing at the stars as if the answer could be found written among them. _I'll lay my love between the stars...._ Just like Syrelis and Korus, whose love for each other blazed across the night sky for all to see. Yes, she was right. Even though Syrelis ran, she never ran too fast or too far for Korus to follow.

"I don't like that constellation anymore," he said at last, raising a lazy hand. "I think I'll change it into something else."

She grabbed his arm. "Don't you dare!"

He went still, absolutely still. The heat of her palm burned on his arm. She had touched him, touched him with her warm, human hands. He had never touched her when she journeyed through his Labyrinth, except once, and even that had been a dream within a dream, a fragile and ethereal moment that he had held onto and cherished. But now, this was no illusion. Even if it was only her dream self that sat there across from him.... Through the sleeve of his cambric shirt, he could feel the touch of her skin, warm and soft as only a human girl's could be. No, not a girl anymore.... Slowly, he turned to look at her.

It took her breath away. His eyes _smoldered_, and she felt that he was looking through her, into her very core, until he had read all of her secrets, secrets even she didn't know about. They burned away all the impurities, until all that was left in front of him was the essence of herself, of Sarah, stripped and exposed and bared before his eyes. As if only he was the only one who had ever seen her, truly seen her. She flinched from the intensity of that gaze, letting go of him as if she'd been burned -- as if his skin and not his eyes burned her. The folds of the cloak fell away from her body, revealing a tantalizingly thin nightgown. But he reached out and grabbed her wrist. Not cruelly, but firmly. His hand trailed down, and he was holding her hand, intertwining their fingers.

"What if you were Syrelis, and Korus came to you again, offering you his love? Would you say yes?"

Sarah opened her mouth to reply, but the world was fading into grey, the colors running in streaks down the canvas. She turned her panicking eyes to the golden-haired man beside her, except he was bleeding into the landscape too. The hand holding hers was melting.

"Sarah!" he moaned, sighs that echoed, lingered and died. She opened her eyes, feeling soft cotton pillows under her cheek. The world was still dark. The sighing in the air was the wind. _Sarah, Sarah, Sarah...._

The stars seemed to shine brighter than usual, unrecognizable constellations. Sarah was awful as astronomy. She admired stars as individual pinpoints of light, scattered across the velvet sky, yet the shapes remained evasive and unreadable to her. Yet she found herself searching for something in the distance, a shape, a figure, a story. A love laid between the stars.

_We're choosing the path between the stars...._

Running among the stars, feet treading on the darkness of deep space as the world dropped below them. She was no longer flesh and blood, no longer earthbound, but fire and light and air. And so was he, running behind her in an endless pursuit, running to catch up with the sun, never letting it set below the horizon, never letting night steal upon them. So fast that they would always remain in the present, leaving time behind as they ran, always running, always remaining in today, always in sight of the sun.

When she opened her eyes again, the morning had dawned, bright and golden. She had been dreaming, yet the dream was escaping her, fading into darkness and light. She could only remember that she had been happy, so very happy. She'd wanted to stay in the dream.

She cried for the dream she'd lost.


	6. Wanting

**Disclaimer: **

Standard disclaimers apply.

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson, George Lucas, Brian Froud and its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

----------------------------------------------------

**Chapter 5**

**Wanting**

"God, I'm so tired, someone kill me now," Patrick moaned from where he lay face flat on the stage. He'd collapsed in a flurry of silk and brocade and glitter the minute Luke had yelled _cut,_ a puppet whose strings had been snipped. The dress rehearsal had taken its toll on him. The final transformation scene alone had taken seven runs through to sort out the technical details, never mind performance. "We have to do this six nights a week, plus matinees?"

"That's what understudies are for," Kyle joked, passing him a water bottle. "They do the work, you get the glory. Think about it, opening night, your name in lights, and the limelight!"

It was Monday, three days before opening night, and Luke had insisted they start rehearsing in costumes already. While the costumes were beautiful, inspired by late seventeenth century Western European fashion and heavily trimmed with lace and brocade, they were stifling and difficult to move in. Girls who'd never worn corsets before suddenly discovered the importance of breathing, and the men learned appreciation for the ability to walk in heels.

"If we even get there," Luke said. "We've less than three days until opening night, and we're still having problems. I want you to be fresh and ready tomorrow, no more blunders like today."

Amelia raised her hand. "So we can go home now?" she asked hopefully.

The rest of the cast laughed as the director frowned. "Don't sound so happy to be out of here," he admonished. "Yes, you can go home now."

He caught Sarah before she left the stage, grabbing her sleeve almost shyly and possessively. It had been torture, playing the part of the professional director, seeing her dressed as beautifully as any princess in a fairy story, watching her smile and play at romance with Patrick when all he could think about was the kiss she had given him only a few nights ago. She was so beautiful in her peacock blue dress, shining with golden and green and cerulean hues under the stage light, bright against the darkness of her black hair. A distant part of him wished he'd thought to dress up, instead of simple jeans and a button up shirt. "Luke?"

"Shhh," he hushed, glancing behind her furtively. They were alone. He wet his lips. "I can't stop thinking about that kiss."

Comprehension dawned in her eyes. Looking backwards for eavesdroppers or lingering cast members, she shook his hand from her sleeve. "Don't be silly, Luke," she said. "Right now you're the director and I'm the actress. Now is not the time."

He caught her again. "Do you think about it?" he pressed her. "About the kiss? About what I said?"

"It was only a kiss," she told him definitively. "It doesn't mean anything. As for the other thing, no, I haven't really thought about it. You can't rush these things, Luke. Either they happen or they don't. I told you I'd give you a chance, and I will, but I can't just say yes to you right now."

"There isn't anyone else, is there? Someone you're holding out for?" He knew he sounded desperate. His words were pathetic even to his own ears.

"God, why do men always assume there's someone else?" Her tone was half exasperated, half amused. "There isn't. I told you, I don't know you well enough to know yet. You can take me out on a date sometime, and we'll find out. So I suppose for now, the answer is _maybe_."

It wasn't a promise, but it was something, and Luke at least knew when to concede. "How about on opening night? After the show, we'll go out."

Sarah shook her head. "I can't. My stepfather is throwing me a party. You're welcome to come if you'd like. It'll probably be mostly theatre people anyways," she told him.

"I'll go, if I can go as your date. How about that? You'll give me an answer on opening night, after the show," he proposed eagerly, catching both her hands in his. "It'll be perfect. If you say yes, we'll go to your party together."

What could she say? At the very least, it gave her some time to ponder the strange predicament she found herself in. Sarah nodded, feeling that she had stumbled into an opera, and that they performed to an unseen audience.

He drew her into the shadows of the stage wings, where the sets and props hid them from view in case someone blundered onto the stage. Sarah looked at him suspiciously, skeptically. "What are you doing?" she demanded as he maneuvered her behind the backdrop of the Beast's castle.

"Can I kiss you again?" he whispered, careful to keep his voice low in case someone might overhear them.

She stared at him for a moment before she started chuckling, muffling her laughter with one hand. Regaining control of herself, she nodded, lifting her face. "You don't have to ask, you know," she said.

As he bent his head towards her and as his lips came into contact against her lips, he thought how she managed to make him feel like a schoolboy, nervous and awkward in the first discovering of women. This kiss was nothing like the kiss in her apartment, which had been soft and thoughtful and sweet. This kiss was hesitant and stiff, an impersonal touching of lips. It was the kiss children on the cusp of adolescence gave each as they who played games with bottles and closets too mature for their youth and inexperience.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I appear to have stumbled upon something I shouldn't have," a voice observed coolly, slicing through them as neatly as a scalpel.

Luke released Sarah and jumped back nervously, and she turned her face away so that her long hair was a curtain that masked her. But it wasn't anyone from the cast. The same handsome and blond stranger from last week had returned, leaning against a convenient stage prop as he watched the tableau before him with an expression of mischievous mirth. His eyes were hard. "Shall I come back later?"

Sarah slipped out from his embrace, slipping past the stranger as she headed for the dressing rooms. The blond man followed her with his eyes, and did Luke imagine that she paused slightly under that gaze, drawn by the gravitation of his good looks and powerful aura? But Sarah dived into the shadows of the wings, and he could no longer see the gleaming threads of her gown anymore. He turned his attention back to the stranger.

"Was that your leading lady?" the blond man asked.

"Yes..." Luke said warily. He wondered how long the blond man had been watching them, if he'd witnessed more than the awkward kiss. He turned and began to move back towards the stage. "Yes, that was Sarah. She's the leading lady."

"Sarah?" The question was asked right beside him, startling him. He hadn't heard the blond stranger move.

"Yeah, Sarah Robertson, she calls herself. I happen to know she's the daughter of Linda Williams," Luke replied. Lost in the shadows of the stage wings, he didn't see the handsome man's lips tighten or the tiny line that appeared between the eyebrows. "She's got her mother's talent, and she's beautiful too. As beautiful as a fairy tale princess, which is exactly why I cast her as Beauty, and this feeling about her, like if you just stay next to her and wait, something exciting is going to happen. You ever get that feeling?"

"Yes," the stranger said gently. "I know what you mean."

His mistrust dispelled, Luke grinned at the other man. "You know, I don't even know your name. You probably already know mine, but it's Luke."

"Jareth."

"God, that's a bit old-fashioned, isn't it?" Luke couldn't stop himself from exclaiming. He checked himself. "I mean, I haven't met very many people named Jareth."

The stranger -- Jareth -- shrugged. "It's just a name. 'That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,'" he quoted, pacing the span of the stage as he admired the set design. "'The perfume and the prick's the same.'* So tell me, Luke, how are you enjoying my present?"

Somewhere in the back of his head, Luke wondered at how long the cast had taken to change back into casual clothes. But reality seemed to have suspended itself. In some way, Jareth seemed to defy reality, with his ethereal appearance, his aristocratic air, and his ability to somehow understand exactly what Luke meant when he described Sarah. Even with his wild golden hair in his designer suit, he fitted perfectly into the period backdrop of the stage. Men like Jareth shouldn't exist. "That crystal ball?" he asked, descending the stage steps to the audience level. "I've got it in my jacket pocket, on the seat."

"No, it's not," Jareth said in a curious tone of voice. "It's right here, on the stage." To prove it, he held out the little sphere to the amazed director, his black gloves contrasting darkly with its pale iridescence.

"Okay, maybe not. How did it get there? I must have taken it out and forgotten about it," Luke laughed as he came back up onto the stage for a better look. There was no denying that the bauble in Jareth's gloved hands was the same crystal ball he'd been given last week. "But it's just a crystal ball, isn't? Nothing special."

Jareth shook his head. "It does exactly as I told you," he said. "It will show you your dreams.

"I haven't seen anything," Luke said, maybe a little petulantly.

"Then perhaps your dreams aren't strong enough," Jareth replied. "Ask yourself, what do you _really_ want?"

His tone was inviting. Hypnotherapists should take lessons from this man, Luke though as he found himself staring at the crystal in Jareth's gloved hands. The swirls and glints upon its surface seemed to be rearranging themselves into patterns, vague and fleeting, ever changing. A white dress swirled within its depths. A woman leaned against the ornate metalwork railing of the balcony. When he tapped her on the shoulder, Sarah turned around and smiled.

"Your leading lady, then?"

Luke hadn't realized he'd spoken out loud. He looked up from the crystals into Jareth's eyes. He'd been mistaken. The eyes were not dark, but light blue, almost like shards of glass set in an already ethereally pale face. Yet they were deep with secrets, like a clear pool of water with no bottom, and despite their paleness, they arrested the onlooker with their strange fire and their unevenly sized pupils. It was unnerving to see. Jareth flipped the crystal into the air lightly and caught it again one-handedly. The image disappeared. "So you do have dreams," he remarked. "You should cherish them."

Jareth held out the crystal again. Unable to look away from the other man's pale eyes, Luke accepted the gift numbly. "Dreams are important," Jareth continued. "They tell us who we truly are. Without dreams, we find ourselves at the mercy of other people's dreams."

"What are Sarah's dreams?" Luke asked, then paused. He hadn't meant to ask. How would a stranger like Jareth know? Yet the question had risen, unbidden, compelled by the secrets he'd seen in Jareth's eyes.

As if Jareth might know.

"I doubt she'd appreciate my telling you," Jareth said quietly. "Dreams, after all, are very personal, and I have already intrude one time too many."

"Do you know her then?"

Jareth flashed him a smile. It showed his teeth. "Very well," he replied. "Much better than she'd like to admit."

Luke felt like an idiot to have spoken so possessively and intimately about her to someone who possibly -- not possibly, definitely -- knew her better than he did. How Jareth must have laughed inside. "Oh. Why didn't you stop me blathering on about her then," he protested. A memory reared in his mind. "Hold on. Was she the one you came searching for the last time you were here? You were looking for Sarah. What do you want with her?" _God, I sound like the protective boyfriend._

Jareth's smile didn't falter. "That's not the question you should be asking," he said. "It's not a question of what I want with her, but what what I want from her."

Luke found he couldn't move as the handsome, graceful blond man approached him, slow stalking steps like a panther bent on its prey. "And the answer, Luke?" Jareth continued, his tone conversationally, friendly, amused. It didn't matter that Luke made no answer. He bent down so he could whisper in the smaller man's ear.

"_Everything_."

The word echoed in the silence of Luke's mind, swallowed suddenly by approaching chatter. Jareth straightened, his face a careful mask as he smiled pleasantly at the actors who'd changed out of their costumes. Several girls -- dressers and make up artists -- returned his smile with looks of interest. They lingered pointedly as everyone else filed out the doors, flirting with body language as they flipped their hair and reapplied lipstick. But their efforts were wasted.

"Think about what I said, about staying true to your dreams," Jareth said amiably, stepping away from the immobile director. "I'll be seeing you."

He slipped back into the shadows of the wings, his suit blending into the darkness until it engulfed even the golden halo of his hair. His exit seemed to lift the spell that held Luke in place, and he let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. The enthralled girls swarmed around him. "Who was that?" one asked excitedly.

What should he say? He didn't quite know the answer himself. "A fan of the leading lady, apparently," he replied with a weak smile.

"Well, if she doesn't want him, I do!" The sentiment was warmly echoed by the other giggling girls. Luke did not want to know if Sarah shared the sentiment.

----------------------------------------------------

As Sarah brushed past the man who'd interrupted, curiosity made her glance at him. The glimpse arrested her, a moment of gravitation that pulled her in towards him involuntarily. It wasn't that he was handsome -- he was exceedingly handsome -- or that he held himself as tall and proud as any king, but because it had struck a chord inside her somewhere. In that moment, she'd felt sure that they knew each other, that he would understand all the thoughts she couldn't tell anyone else, and that he knew those thoughts already. Looking at him, she felt the stirring of something she hadn't felt in a long time, something for which she had no name.

She felt all this within the span of one rapid heartbeat. Then he smiled at her, the barest curve of his narrow lips. It was a knowing and inviting smile, as if he knew the thoughts that had passed through her mind. That smile, above everything else, frightened her, and she dropped her eyes from his as she hurried away.

----------------------------------------------------

She couldn't help being envious of Merlin on days like these.

Watching him snuffle along the streets and submit himself to the affection ministrations of children, Sarah had to conclude that he had a truly wonderful life. He had a mistress who pampered him, children loved him, and he never had to worry about the feelings of other people.

The feelings of other people....

She'd told Luke that she give him an answer on Thursday night, after the final curtain call. She had three days to decide if she liked him enough to out with him. It was decidedly an old-fashioned ritual, and while once upon a time, she might have been flattered with his formal courtship, she had outgrown her girlish fantasies of princes and knights in shining armor upon white horses. It had seemed sweet and cute last week. Now she found his reverent adoration stifling.

And if she really thought about it, she should not have kissed him. But she had been caught in the moment -- the scent of the mysterious roses, the kneeling man at her feet -- and moved by his pretty words. _I would be your _slave, he'd told her, and so she'd kissed him.

But their second kiss, stolen in the shadows of the theatre wings, had been less than romantic. "I can't believe he asked for permission to kiss me," she complained to Merlin. "Who does that anymore? I suppose some people would think it's sweet, but it was really just awkward. I'd much rather he grab me and kiss me passionately. Rhett Butler never asked Scarlet for permission to kiss her."

Merlin just covered her face with slobbering kisses.

"See, you don't ask for permission either," Sarah reprimanded laughingly, fighting him down. "I guess it's time for dinner, huh? I know that look on your face! You think you're so cute! Well, guess what? Maybe you are."

She met with a surprise on the front steps of her building. He sat -- no, lounged -- on the porch steps in anticipation, his long limbs arranged with effortless grace while his chin rested on black gloved hands. He was a mysterious and suave figure in all black, from his overcoat that flowed to his knees to the well cut suit underneath and down to his black shoes. His clothes might as well have been cut from the night sky itself. His blond hair stood out starkly in contrast, as pale as moonlight. In the eerie twilight, he seemed like a figure out of folk tales and legends. He raised his head at the sound of her approach, her shoes tapping on the concrete pavement. "Hello," he greeted her calmly.

She stopped. Beside her, Merlin let out a low whine and pawed at the ground uneasily.

Up close, he was even more handsome than the glimpse she'd caught earlier. She'd never seen such beauty in a man before. His skin seemed to shimmer with a faint glow, as pale as winter snow. The evening shadows accentuated his bony and sophisticated face, carving out the hollows of his defined cheekbones and softening his hard features with complexities and depth. Yet it was his eyes that caught her. Pale colored yet dark in the gloom, she was transfixed by their eerie uneven pupils. Compelling in their strangeness, they looked at her as if he, of all people, truly saw her.

"Aren't you at least going to say 'hello' back?" he asked in a deep, cultured voice, when minutes went by and she still only stared at him. There was a trace of an accent, betraying foreign origins. He stood up, unfolding his height as he brushed dust from his clothes.

"Hello," she said, a little faintly.

He frowned, despite the fact that she had done exactly as he'd suggested. Cocking his head to one side, he regarded her intently. He took in her heightened color, already flushed from jogging Merlin around the blond, took in the dark black hair pulled back in a messy bun, and the red scarf draped around her neck. His eyes swept over her close-fitted black sweater, her jeans, and her knee-length boots. Lastly, he gazed at the wary expression on her face. "Don't you know me?" he asked kindly, and perhaps a little sadly too.

"I think I do," she replied hesitantly. It was hard to concentrate when he looked at her like that. "You look very familiar, but I can't place the memory."

He smiled a little wistfully at her. "I wish I could forget you as easily."

"So we _have_ met before?" she asked. The wind carried his scent to her, mysterious and wild and intoxicating. It was no cologne she recognized. She didn't think it was cologne at all. The same wind whipped the ends of her scarf into her face, snatching it from her neck. She reached for it with a cry, tripping over Merlin.

He caught it easily, plucking it from the air with one black gloved hand. The red wool was bright against the darkness of his garments like a splash of blood. It flowed from his outstretched hand, a solemn pledge that he offered her. "Yes. Although it was probably not a meeting you would care to remember," he answered ruefully as he handed back the scarf.

"Thanks," she said slowly, accepting it. There was something about his expression, his beauty, his voice, and his scent that enthralled her, and she wondered how she could ever have forgotten someone like him. She opened her mouth ask how they met, but Merlin butted her from behind, whining piteously. "Oh, right, Merlin," she soothed. She turned back to her mysterious visitor. "Would you like to come upstairs? I have to feed this poor excuse for a pet here."

"Do you usually invite strange men up to your apartment?" he asked, half in amusement and half in consternation, as he followed her up the steps.

Sarah shrugged as she unlocked the door. "You said we've met already," she countered flippantly. Then in a more serious tone, "I do feel as if I know you, even if I don't remember your name."

"It's Jareth."

They paused outside the door of her unit, as if the speaking of his name were a spell he had cast. It was both familiar and alien to her. The sound of it seemed to chime in the air, its echoing trickling into the corners of her awareness and tinging everything with a sense of magic and enchantments. As if the world held its breath expectantly. Slowly, she turned around and faced him. He was looking at her as if he was waiting for something, some reaction, some outburst that did not happen. "Well, it's certainly very different. But then again, _you_ seem very different. It suits you," she said, unlocking the door. "Well, this is it."

Once inside, the sheepdog dragged Sarah into the kitchen, leaving Jareth alone in the hallway. He could hear the dog banging against the kitchen cabinets in his eagerness as he removed his overcoat, draping it carefully on the little table just inside the door. There was a vase of roses on the table, deep red and fragrant. He smiled to see them.

The roses were everywhere in the living too. Vases of red flowers stood upon any available surface -- the coffee table, the book shelves, on top of the television. Their heaving nodding blooms wept tears of blood, rose petals that released a deep and powerful perfume. And the walls were decorated with Polaroids and photographs of Sarah with her friends, Sarah posing for the camera, Sarah unaware that she was being watched. Her green eyes gazed back at him soulfully, from under her tousled hair as she smiled at the camera, her naked body hidden tantalizingly by white bed sheets. He didn't want to know who'd taken the picture. A book lay face down on the floor. He picked it up.

"Sorry about Merlin," Sarah said, coming into the living room. She'd taken off her scarf. The V-neck of her sweater bared her throat and collarbones. "He's an absolute pig and has no manners. All he wants to do is play." Jareth gestured at the pictures on the wall. "I like your life," he said. She leaned against the wall, raising an eyebrow at him. "Well, it's mine, and you can't have it," she said with feigned childish selfishness.

He smiled, almost painfully, at her response and changed the subject. "_The Phantom of the Opera?_" he asked, showing her the book.

"Dark sexy men living underground with an edge of danger," she laughed. "What's not to love? And he can sing. Definitely a rock star persona, wouldn't you say?"

"I see," he said. "Even though he's essentially the villain of the story and murdered innocent bystanders without any remorse?"

"Probably _because_ he's the villain. And who says he was remorseless?" she countered, fiddling with the stereo. The soft strains of Andrew Lloyd Webber's score filled the room. "He wasn't directly responsible for any of the deaths, and he was contrite in the end. All he wanted was a normal life with Christine, no more hiding, no more masks, no more lies; and he let her go in the end."

Jareth had stripped off his jacket, laying it on the sofa. Underneath the jacket, he wore a black vest, unbuttoned, over his white shirt. It gave him a rakish look. She could see now that he was broad shouldered naturally even without the jacket, despite his thinness. Yet he retained his gloves. "This Erik is a fool," he declared, even as he set the book down carefully on the coffee table next to its vase of roses. "Why should he give up the woman he loves, when she has come to him willingly?"

"Because he loves her," Sarah replied. "Because he sees that she is unhappy in the darkness. Because she loves Raoul."

"Do you really believe that?" he asked. "Or perhaps, Raoul is the safe choice? Even Raoul points out in the story that Christine's fear of the phantom may be the most exquisite kind of love, the kind that she refuses to admit even to herself." He sat down in the perpendicular seat of the ottoman, leaning over the armrest towards her. "Admit it, you think Raoul's a bore, and you secretly wish Christine had chosen Erik."

"Yes, but I'm not Christine," Sarah confessed. "My opinion doesn't really matter, does it?"

"But you are a woman. You've admitted you're attracted to the wild and dangerous villain," Jareth pointed out with a sly grin.

Sarah had to laugh at his expression of smug victory. "No, perhaps you're right. Perhaps she doesn't love Raoul," she said at last, leaning back in her seat. "But I think she is afraid of Erik, even as she is drawn to him, and I think that even love cannot teach her to live underground in the dark."

Jareth moved, slipping out of his seat so that he could lean over her. His hands on the armrests of the chair trapped her in place. He leaned in closer to her, until he was looking down into her green eyes. So close that he could put his arms around her. So close that she could see herself distinctly in his enlarged pupil. "I thought stories said that love could conquer anything," he said softly.

_And in his eyes, all the sadness of the world..._

_Those pleading eyes that both threaten and adore....._

"Only if you let it," she whispered back, her heart pounding.

"I see," he said simply. He stepped back and away from her. The violins rose to a swell, the introduction to Christine and Raoul's love duet, until they were silenced abruptly, severed by Jareth's finger on the _stop_ button of the stereo. "I've always found that song rather disgustingly sentimental."

The stillness weighed heavily upon the two figures, a tangible barrier between them that could not be penetrated by any words that Sarah could think of. There were ghosts in the silence, the ghost of a masked man whose heart and face were broken, of a man who had been forgotten and relegated to the realm of nightmares and shadows, and ghosts that she could not recognize, not anymore, and one of the ghosts was the man in her living room, his wild silver hair swaying in the evening breeze, and she did not want to forget him again.

She was not conscious of stumbling to her feet, nor of clumsily falling forward across the small distance between them. She was only conscious of throwing her arms around him, his soft hair tickled her nose. She did not notice how he stiffed under her embrace, his thin frame trembling with barely controlled passion. "Don't go, don't go," she repeated desperately.

Slowly, very slowly, he turned in her embrace, lifting her face with gloved fingers. "Sarah, what is wrong?" he asked gently, very gently.

"I don't know," she blurted out, releasing him hastily. She covered her red cheeks. Her voice was half a sob, and she could not understand the urge to cry. "I don't know, I'm sorry. I was suddenly frightened."

"That I would leave?" He pulled her to him again, wrapping his arms around her. One gloved hand smoothed her hair.

"Yes."

This close to him, the strange wild and magical scent of him pervaded her sense. She could feel the rumble of his chest as he spoke. His voice was very quiet, his tone strange. "Do you not want me to?"

"I don't know," she replied in an equally small voice, addressing his chest. "No. I don't."

Her face buried his chest, she heard rather than saw him smile. "Then I shall stay."

----------------------------------------------------

She fell asleep, listening to him read aloud from her book of Hans Christian Andersen fairy tales in his deep velvety voice. When she woke up, the sun was a glimmer on the grey horizon. Jareth was gone.

----------------------------------------------------

* "Bring On the Men," from Frank Wildhorn's _Jekyll and Hyde_. Youtube it performed by Linda Eder.


	7. Haunting You

**Disclaimer: **

Standard disclaimers apply.

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson and its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

----------------------------------------------------

**Chapter 6**

**Haunting You**

Although Luke did not ask her for another kiss, he wooed her with his eyes. He gazed at her longingly with shining eyes, like a little boy who presses his face against the shop window at the sight of a gleaming bicycle. Sarah refused to meet his eyes. Even then, she felt the heat of his eyes upon her, and she could only pretend that she did not notice his silent courtship. Yet he seemed content just to look at her, needing no encouragement to feed his love.

Jareth was waiting for her again on her doorstep, dressed as immaculately as the previous evening. His long trench coat trailed behind him like a cape in the breeze. "I thought I would join you as you take Merlin for a walk," he suggested, leaning against the banister.

They went to the park, strolling along the banks of the river as Merlin chased the ducks. In the red glow of the setting sun, the river was a pool of blood. It set fire to the already burning trees, with their red and golden and orange and brown leaves, until the world was on fire around them, and Jareth was the fiery king, his wild hair a crown of fire of golden and russet flames flowing down his back.

Jareth had a gift for storytelling. He had a story for everything they saw -- a swallow soaring southward, the hoary dandelions that dotted the grassy bank, the fattening squirrels. His words were a spell that summoned goblins and dwarves and knights from the depths of Sarah's imagination and gave them shape. He drew her maps of labyrinthian forests where the wild things danced. WIth the magic of his voice, he painted her mornings of gold and spun her Valentine evenings.

Sarah was enthralled.

"The way you tell stories, it's beautiful," Sarah sighed as the light faded from burning scarlet to deep violet. The fires died around them, the colors burnt into shadows. She could see the evening star, low on the horizon. "You have a way with words, you know, you use them so well that I can see everything you describe. It's like you've been to these places and seen these things."

"But I have," Jareth replied, tossing a stick for Merlin to fetch. "And so have you."

Sarah shook her head. "I still don't understand how we know one another," she reminded him. "You never told me how we met. How could I have forgotten? I have a wonderful memory."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you we met once upon a dream, would you?" he asked slyly, wistfully, even as his smile betrayed a hint of wistfulness. He bowed, a parody of Prince Philip from the Disney animated movie as he held out his arms invitingly. A dance. "And if I know you, I know what you'll do. You'll lo--"

"No _Sleeping Beauty_ references!" she laughed, interrupting his solo. "I mean it, how did we meet?"

He dropped his arms, all mischief abandoned. "You'd lost your baby brother, Toby," he replied, slowly, searching for the words to say. "You were... distraught. You were lost in a maze."

"And I suppose you helped me find Toby and our way out," Sarah finished for him. Swooping down, she plucked a fuzzy dandelion and sent its thistles out onto the breeze, little ghosts that floated through the darkness. "It sounds familiar, but I still don't remember it. I suppose that's memory for you. For some reason, Toby remembers you. He mentioned you a few weeks ago. I'd forgotten until now."

Jareth smiled wanly. "Memory is a fickle thing," he agreed. "The experience was traumatic for you. I am not surprised you have chosen to forget it."

Tired of the dandelion seeds, the wind plucked at the ends of her scarf, tracing invisible fingers along the back of her neck and up her arms. Sarah shivered.

Quite suddenly, she felt the heavy weight of an overcoat settle on her shoulders. Jareth had stripped off his coat, leaving him only his suit jacket to counter the brisk autumn chill. "Aren't you cold?" she asked, even as her fingers clutched the coat to her. There was something very familiar about the gesture.

He shrugged. "I don't feel the cold," he answered, quite truthfully, "and you're cold. Maybe we should turn back. Merlin will be wanting his dinner soon."

"Unfortunately, you've pretty much got him figured to a tee," Sarah observed grinning up at him. They began to trace their steps backwards. The evening star had vanished, hiding behind the treetops as the moon rose higher in the sky. Twilight had come and gone. Merlin, sensing that dinner was imminent, followed happily.

He leaned against the stone wall of the building as she fished for her keys. "Aren't you going to ask me upstairs?" he asked petulantly.

She raised her eyebrows skeptically as she asked, "What makes you think I will?"

"Well, you don't have to. But if this is goodbye, I would at least appreciate a kiss goodnight," Jareth said slyly, leaning forward suggestively. "Isn't that the usual accepted ending to a date?"

"I'm not kissing you out here."

Moving so that he trapped her in the between the door and his body, he leaned his hands on the door on either side of her, blocking any escape. "If you're trying to tell me I'm not welcome upstairs, I'm afraid you've failed," he told her.

"I'm not kissing you out here," Sarah repeated firmly, refusing to turn around. She was infinitively conscious of his presence behind her, the warmth of breath against the back of her neck when he spoke, sending thrills down her spine. "What if my neighbors see? I don't want them to think I'm a hussy!"

"I think it's too late for that, love," he murmured silkily -- purred. "Besides, I came upstairs yesterday. I think I've already ruined your reputation."

"You're being a jerk," she said shakily, forcing herself to turn around and face him. He was very, very close, so close that she could see his eyelashes. They were the color of golden wheat, darker than his hair, which gleamed silver in the moonlight. Sarah blinked, seeing for one second a second Jareth offering her a rose.

He grinned at her words. Yet he continued to lean in closer to her. She felt his breath along her jawline, her neck, her throat, and finally over her lips again. Sarah closed her eyes, tilting her head back and exposing her throat. A gloved hand settled there, feeling the faint fluttering of her pulse through the supple leather, sensual against her bare skin. A thumb brushed against her parted lips. "In that case, you should ask me upstairs," he murmured.

His touch pulled the words from her lips. She breathed, "Come upstairs."

And suddenly, she was falling backwards through nothing, but he'd caught her, pulling her tightly against him. She turned. He'd opened the door, finding her keys while her eyes were closed. She looked back at him, and he was laughing at her silently with his eyes. "Well, I couldn't pass up a chance, could I?" he asked her innocently.

"Jerk!" she repeated, louder this time and with real conviction as she pushed herself away from him. The man was mocking her, teasing her! She stormed through the door.

--------------------------------------

Sarah, carrying two mugs of hot chocolate, paused inside the french windows to stare at the tall and dark figure on her balcony. He leaned against the railing, his eyes lifted to the sky as he contemplated the stars. The shadows softened the harsh planes of his face, deepening the contours of his cheekbones and eyes. His skin was so pale, almost blue in the darkness. It made him look... ethereal. From another world. In that moment, she could believe that he had seen the wondrous and magical things he'd described. She could even imagine that he was the Goblin King from the book _Labyrinth_.

He turned when she stepped onto the balcony. Sarah set down one mug on the rail next to his elbow. "You should know I put arsenic in it," she said. "Unlike cyanide, it's not a quick nor a painless death."

The corners of his eyes crinkled in mirth. "I appreciate your consideration," he told her solemnly. He pointed towards the horizon, his skin gleaming in the moonlight. "Look, Sarah. Do you see that star?"

"Which one?" She looked along the line of his arm, where a star glittered low on the horizon. "I'm awful at astronomy."

He shifted so that he stood behind her instead of next to her. One gloved hand rested on the balcony, trapping her on that side, while the other one continued to point at the elusive star. He leaned down, getting a closer perspective to hers. "See that bright yellow star low on the horizon, followed closely by the pulsing blue star? That yellow star is a little known star called Syrelis in some cultures."*

Sarah went rigid. A lingering fragment of a dream stirred inside of her, on the edge of waking. "What about the other star?"

"That star is named Korus," he replied. "There's a very beautiful story about these two stars. A king fell in love with a beautiful maiden and pursued her across the night sky."

She turned in his arms so she leaned backwards against the rail, staring up into his face. Jareth dropped his hand so that both hands rested against the rail, trapping her in the circle of his arms. A glint of metal caught her eye, and she looked down from his face.

"What is this?" she asked, reaching up to touch the golden pendant on his chest.

He caught her hand before she did. "It is nothing that concerns you," he said. "A trinket, nothing more and nothing less."

Strange how each time they touched, even through a layer of leather, she seemed to feel a thrill run through her. Like lightning down a metal rod. Like electricity through a circuit. Like a blaze of fire burning down a wick. This time, however, she did not shy from the contact. A small twist of the hand, and she held his hand in her two hands. Slowly, she began to pull off his glove

Jareth let her, watching her silently as she revealed the white skin of his hand. His fingers were long and thin, yet with a strength that belied their fragile appearance. The glove she laid gently on the rail beside her. Then raising her eyes to look at him, Sarah lifted his cold fingertips to her lips.

It burned, oh, how it burned! The warmth of her skin and her breath set his blood on fire, and his hand trembled in her grasp as she brushed her lips against his skin. They were soft. They were warm. They were on his skin, and he could not look away from her green eyes, fearless and focused upon his own. There was nowhere to hide, nothing that her eyes did not see. They stripped him bare, delving past his defenses until he was sure that she _knew_. Where was the fifteen year old child who had fled from him seven years ago? She was a ghost, a memory, left behind in the Labyrinth, haunting its stones.

Haunting its ruler.

"You are still as reckless as you were at fifteen," he said thickly, drawing his hand away. It was unbearable to be so close to her. Pushing himself away, he stalked back inside the apartment. He could still feel her warmth on his fingertips, lingering memories that refused to sink into oblivion. He would forever be haunted by her kiss. He clenched his fingers into a fist.

"There are things you're not telling me, aren't there?" Sarah called. He paused in the doorway, caught in between -- in between the living room and the balcony, in between a memory and the present, between his desire for her and his sense. Caught between dreaming and reality. She continued. "Because you seem to know me very, yet I feel like I never really knew you. If I did, how could I have forgotten you so easily. What aren't you telling me?"

Jareth turned, his pale face impassive once more in the moonlight.

"What did you mean earlier, when you said that you have seen the things you told me about?" Sarah asked.

"Precisely what I told you," he replied. His eyes seemed so deep, full of secrets only he remembered. How many forgotten secrets did he keep? "Would you like to see for yourself?"

He held out a hand to her. His pale skin seemed to glitter in the moonlight, the glove forgotten on the rail of the balcony. The gesture itself was almost hammy, as Jeremy might say, who saw clichés in everything, and perhaps it might have been hammy if anyone else had executed it, a overly dramatic wave of the hand. Yet Jareth turned into a motion of grace and power, brimming with the promise of fulfillment.

"Do you trust me?" he asked.

"No," she replied, even as she placed her hand in his.

He smiled at her answer. "That's my princess."

And the world fell down around them.

--------------------------------------

* By the way, in case you weren't sure, these stars don't actually exist! These are not references to any obscure stars or arcane myths, except those that exist in my imagination. So in that sense, they are as real as the tooth fairy.


	8. Come Back to Me

**Disclaimer:**

Standard disclaimers apply.

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson and its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

----------------------------------------------------

**Chapter 7  
Come Back to Me**

Dreams are the vehicles with which the sleeper explores the world of imagination. We walk the dreamscape in search of what we cannot find while waking. What we find may not be what we wish. What we wish may not be what we want. But still we want. We search.

Sarah dreams.

The old man laughs, fishing diamonds out of the sky. A drop of blood blossoms into a red, red rose. The princess cries tears of fire and rubies, and the prince removes his mask and becomes an ugly crone.

The Goblin King rides a horse of purest white. His cloak is the howling wind, and his crown is made from ice. The horse runs as fast as the wind, its mane and tail streaming behind in a myriad of colors.

The brass door knockers ogle at her as she tries to decide which door to enter. Grotesque goblin faces that are too close. She shies away from them, but they are everywhere she turns. The snickering mouths laugh with uncontrolled mirth from beneath their ugly goblin masks. Beautiful women wearing opulent dresses and sinister carnival masks lick their painted red lips. They laugh at a secret only they knew.

The world begins to dance.

----------------------------------------------------

An elegant boot, polished to mirror brightness, trod on the leaves carpeting the forest floor. Jareth knelt beside the sleeping figure. He said nothing. When she murmured in her sleep, he stood up abruptly and left with a swirl of his cloak.

----------------------------------------------------

Sarah woke up in a bed of ferns.

Above her was a vanilla sky.* It was an expanse of creamy pinks and yellows and lavender, the clouds dabs of shimmering color swirled together by an invisible paintbrush until the world seemed to be a Monet painting. Yet the canopy of leaves at the fringe of her vision were sharply defined, their edges keen enough to cut. The scent of roses wafted on the air, tantalizing and familiar. She had smelled these roses before. Somewhere, a little stream bubbled and laughed joyously as it called out to her. She realized that she was thirsty.

Cautiously, she sat up. She was in a clearing, next to a tiny waterfall that splashed merrily down grey stones into a small pool. On the other side of the clearing were trees, wild and overgrown. Nothing looked familiar. She wondered briefly if she was dreaming.

The water was cold! It chilled her teeth as she drank it, colder than any water she'd ever drank. It swept through her as powerfully as a mountain river, leaving her winded as she tried to swallow. It was too pure, too ireal/i to be water in a dream. Even the air seemed sweeter. Where was this place? She splashed her face, feeling her cheeks tingle as she tied back her hair with her scarf.

The undergrowth rustled. Sarah jumped to her feet, senses on alert. She stared at the shaking leaves in the bush. A hand clenched around a rock, raising it in readiness. A shaggy sheepdog emerged, his tongue lolling in eager anticipation. Sarah laughed, lowering the rock. Merlin was here!

"Merlin," she beckoned. The dog cocked his head, but refused to come nearer. Sarah frowned. "Merlin, come here."

The dog began to whine, but he didn't move. He neither approached her nor fled. He simply sat down and watched her, waiting to see what she would do. When she came, scrabbling over the wet slippery rocks, towards him, he let her close the distance between until it shrank to five feet. Then he turned and ran back into the forest.

"Merlin, come back!" she cried, running after him. Her boots crushed the grass beneath, grinding bits of twigs and leaves. "Merlin, what's wrong with you?"

"Ambrosius!"

The dog stopped suddenly -- was that the sound of his paws iskidding/i on the forest floor? But before Sarah could ponder that interesting question, her attention was arrested by the sight of a most curious creature.

Once you got past the fact that a fox terrier was standing upright wearing clothes, you realized that he was wearing the strangest clothes. An elegant feather plumed hat sat on his head, hiding one ear, while an eyepatch covered an eye, giving him a rakish look. This was a fox terrier who had seen many battles, presumably losing one eye for victory and glory. His doublet was brightly colored, and he wore breeches and gloves. Sarah realized he was dressed like a Renaissance knight. No, he was dressed like Don Quixote. Then she realized he was dressed exactly like the toy squirrel she had given Toby when she outgrew her stuffed animals.

He didn't notice her, busy chiding the dog -- whom he called "Ambrosius" -- for cowardice and disobedience. "If you ever do that again, I will never feed you again!" he scolded shrilly, waving his staff around passionately.

"Excuse me," Sarah said politely.

The fox terrier turned. After a moment of shock, he shut his mouth and fell upon a knee before her. "My lady!" he declared, sweeping his hat off to her as gallantly as any knight in a story book. "Thou hast returned."

Sarah was bewildered. "I think you've made a mistake," she protested.

"Not at all!" he cried, looking up at her as he held his hat to his chest. "I know my lady, I could not be mistaken. Thou art the same Sarah Williams who defeated his Majesty, the Goblin King, seven years ago."

"Goblin King?" Sarah laughed. "My name is Sarah Williams, it's true, but I have no idea what you're talking about! The only Goblin King I know about is from iThe Labyrinth/i."

"But my lady," the creature said slowly and seriously. "We are right outside the Labyrinth. See yonder wall there. Within lies the Labyrinth that surrounds the castle of the Goblin King."

"I must be dreaming!" she declared out loud, laughing again. "Animals talking and wearing clothes, looking very much like my old toys. My dog doesn't respond to his own name. There is a Goblin King. I suppose you're going to tell me that there is a Goblin City at the center of this labyrinth, beyond which is the castle of the Goblin King? A stolen child?"

The fox terrier shook his head. "There hasn't been a stolen child Underground since the defeat of the Goblin King seven years ago," he said. "But the castle still stands, and the city has survived. My lady, you must remember. Remember me, thy loyal knight, Sir Didymus."

"Sir Didymus?" she repeated slowly.

"Yes!" the knight cried. "I was one of your loyal companions, along with my brother Sir Ludo and Sir Hoggle."

"Hoggle." The level eyebrows above green eyes furrowed in thought. The name was familiar upon her tongue. She repeated it again, tasting the almost memory, the way her lips shaped the words, the way it rolled off her tongue. The feeling of trust that embraced her.

Sir Didymus watched her carefully. As a knight, he was well versed in lore, and he recognized the scent of adventure that clung to the lady. It was more than her refusal to remember the past. It was the scent of magic spells and enchantments, far stronger than when she has passed through seven years ago. Seven years for Sarah to grow into a woman. Seven years for magic to catch up with her. It had strengthened, folding back on itself until it was a glamour surrounding her. Indeed, the scent of magic clung to her, and by gods, his sense of smell was keen!

"Sir Didymus," she asked after a moment of meditation. "How do I go to the castle? The castle beyond the Goblin City."

His face fell. He still remembered the last journey to the castle. All of a sudden, with a deafening roar, it had crumbled. The companions had barely escaped from the falling stones, joining the crowd of distraught goblins who'd assembled in the square. The once awesome structure, older than memory, had been reduced to mere rubble. Stray chickens clucked in confusion and chased each other over the ruins. The goblins had stared at the space in the air where they had once reveled. Sarah had never come back out, and neither had the king.

Then one day, the king had reappeared. He'd walked through the heavy gates of the Goblin City and through its deathly quiet streets. Its citizens hid in the shadows in anxiety and fear as they watched their sovereign march through the square and up the grand staircase to where the castle had once stood. With his every step, the castle had begun to assemble itself around its monarch. Stones began to stack themselves into bulwarks and towers and parapets. Doors slammed behind the Goblin King. He'd never come out again, and the black thorns had begun to swallow the castle.

And now Sarah had also returned.

"Is that thy destination?" he asked forlornly.

"Yes," Sarah said firmly. "I can't explain it, but I feel that I must go to the castle. Someone is waiting there for me."

----------------------------------------------------

"Where is she?" Luke demanded. "It's been more than three hours!"

The cast glanced at each other mutely, several members shifting uneasily. Kyle tried to loosen his collar without disturbing his cravat. Patrick stared at his big hairy hands. They'd rehearsed all the scenes without Sarah, making the best of what time they had, but being the heroine, she was in practically every scene. The director had raised his wrist practically every ten minutes. His frustration was plain to see.

In the end, it was little Amelia who answered him. "We told you, we don't know," she said pointedly. "She's not that close to any of us anyways. Besides, she's not the kind to just not show up. I'm sure something important came up."

"The show opens tomorrow night," Luke grated out. "We have to get it right now."

"Yes, but there's only so much we can do," Kyle added meekly. "Why don't we have Marie stand in for now? She is the understudy after all."

It was obvious it wasn't the show that set Luke's nerves on edge. While he did care for the success of the show, his thoughts centered on the leading lady and why she wasn't present. Was she in danger? Did she not want to see him? Something had to be wrong, he could feel it.

He had dreamed of her again last night. She'd slept in the forest, her hair spread against the carpet of red and gold leaves. Trees rose out of the earth around her and reached for the sky, their branches unfurling and shedding russet tears. A mysterious figure in black, his hair wild and silver, came out of the shadows of the trees and knelt beside the sleeping maiden. A wind disturbed the trees, brushing aside the curtain of leaves so that a ray of sunlight fell upon the man, who became a bird and flew away.

Then everything began to melt. Colors swirled together, separating to become a new scene -- an opulent opera, the walls and floor made from the finest marble, the banisters gilt with gold. The stage was hung with heavy red velvet curtains. Sarah stood on stage.

She sang with the voice of an angel, pure and sweet and powerful. It moved the audience to its feet, thundering applause. He joined in too, standing up in his box seat and clapping until the seams of his fine kid gloves broke.

The stage plunged into darkness. When the lights came back on, Sarah was gone. The morning dawned clear and bright, and he lay in his own bed in his room. Sarah never came in to rehearsal.

----------------------------------------------------

The gates shut behind them with an ominous thud. A long stone corridor stretched into the distance before their eyes. Sarah could see no twist or turns in the passage, no openings in the walls. "What sort of Labyrinth is this?" she asked Sir Didymus.

"Alas, I know not," he replied, riding astride Ambrosius. "No one ever walks the same route twice. The Labyrinth will give its denizens safe passage, but even we do not know its secrets.** That knowledge belongs to His Majesty alone."

"I see," Sarah said simply, picking her way down the dusty passage. "I shall simply trust the Labyrinth to lead me to its heart then."

----------------------------------------------------

He rang the buzzer again, pounding on the button that bore her name viciously. There was still no reply.

"Looking for Sarah?" a deep voice behind him asked coolly. It was Jareth.

Standing in the street -- curiously devoid of any traffic -- he was dressed in a brown leather trench coat that reached his knees. The collar of the trench coat rose high around his ears, a dark halo around his pale hair. He was shod in knee high boots, much like a gentleman of earlier epochs. He looked like he belonged to another time, another world.

Luke gave a sigh of frustration. "She's disappeared," he replied. "She never showed up to rehearsal today, and no one's answering her phone or her doorbell."

"A lot of anxiety for a missing leading lady."

"Well, Sarah's not the kind to just abandon her work for no reason," Luke said, running his hand through his hair and leaving spikes in its wake. He sat down on the porch steps, digging in his coat pocket for a cigarette and lighter. "I don't know, I thought she might in trouble or something."

"You won't find her here," Jareth said.

Luke stopped in the middle of lighting his cigarette. Slowly, he pulled it out of his mouth as he looked up at the standing man. "You know where she is," he replied. It was less a question and more an observation.

"Yes."

The briefest pause, as the two men stared at each other and measured the other's worth. Each was a mystery to the other, although one of them held an advantage in the game they were about to play, the game that the other did not realize he had been drawn into.

"Do you want to know where she is?" Jareth continued. His face was smooth and impassive in the dying light of the afternoon. The mismatched eyes were deep and knowing, fixed upon the darker haired man in a way that sent shivers down the darker haired man's spine. His right eye was so pale, like chips of ice that bore no emotion and saw through and past everything in its vision, dismissing them as unimportant. The eye with the enlarged pupil seemed black in the dim light, a dark hole that threatened to swallow Luke.

"Yes."

Jareth smiled, a cruel smile that revealed his teeth. There was the creaking sound of a door opening. He pointed with a hand gloved this time in grey. Shooting the standing man with a look of alarm mingled with fear, Luke turned to see the door of the apartment building standing open.

But it was not the foyer that lay beyond the yawning portal. Instead, he saw a yellow sky above a sprawling barren landscape. In the distance, a spire reached for the sky, dismal and threatening.

"What is that place?" he asked. His steps were hesitant as he approached the doorway. The strange world reached until the horizon, unconfined by walls or corners that he could see. He felt as if he'd stumbled onto Narnia.

"The tower you see is my castle, at the heart of the Labyrinth," Jareth replied, right behind Luke's shoulder.

Luke turned and stifled a gasp. The city street, the doorway, the porch had all vanished. Only mountains lay behind the blond man. Even Jareth seemed different -- taller, brighter, realer. His presence crackled with unseen power. There seemed no way back. He demanded, "What happened? Where are we?"

Jareth appeared amused by the fear in the mortal's eyes. Yet his voice was sober despite his merriment at the other man's expense. "We are Underground," he replied. "I suppose you would call it an alternate reality that runs parallel to your own."

"Who are you?" Luke demanded slowly as realization began to creep in.

"I told you my name already," Jareth replied. This really was fun. He swept Luke a bow. "But perhaps the title 'Goblin King' is more appropriate."

"Goblin King? Like in the children's stories, an evil mythical creature that steals children? Did you take Sarah?" Luke demanded, fury in his voice now.

Jareth shrugged. "Now, ievil/i is a question of perspective. I prefer the description iwicked/i. As for Sarah, I have extended her an invitation, yes. She is also somewhere in the Labyrinth, headed towards my castle. Are you going to save her?" he asked merrily.

"Yes, I am. I don't know what your game is, iGoblin King/i," he flung the title back insultingly, "but I'm not going to let you succeed. I'm going to find Sarah and take her back, away from your creepy parallel reality and away from you."

"The only way back is to reach my castle beyond the Goblin City," Jareth said, almost kindly, as if he were concerned for Luke's welfare.

"It doesn't look so far," Luke said. He hoped Jareth hadn't heard the tremor in his voice.

Jareth laughed then, amused by the memory of another challenging speaking the same words seven years ago. In honor of the memory, he offered Luke the same words he'd said to the other. An ornate clock appeared in the air, both hands pointing at thirteen o'clock. "It's further than you think, and time is short. You have thirteen hours to solve the Labyrinth."

"Or else what?"

The Goblin King only raised an eyebrow, spreading his hands. Understanding dawned upon Luke.

"Sarah."

"High stakes indeed, my fine fellow," Jareth agreed. "You've named the stakes, I've named the rules. Thirteen hours to solve the Labyrinth and reach my castle."

"Wait, iI named the stakes/i?" Luke cried. But Jareth had already vanished.

----------------------------------------------------

The stone walls were overrun with briars. Sarah was careful not brush against the wickedly gleaming thorns. She didn't notice a stray tendril pluck her scarf from her hair, waving its prize in the air. Neither did Sir Didymus, leading the way astride his loyal steed.

The long passage finally came to an end, opening into a little circular courtyard. The ground was laid with mosaics, glistening blue and green in the sunlight. A fountain splashed merrily in the center, and the walls here were covered with white roses.

"This is beautiful," Sarah breathed, stepping out into the courtyard.

"Don't pluck the roses," Sir Didymus warned.

Sarah smiled. "Just like in iBeauty and the Beast/i," she replied. "I will remember. I don't fancy a great Beast jumping out at us."

There was only one way out of the courtyard, another corridor on the other side of the fountain. Here, the walls were creeping thorny vines that clung to trellises. The stone walls had vanished. Yet the vines were thick and many, and Sarah could not see past the thorns.

They came to another courtyard, larger than the previous. The fountain was two tiered, and the roses were as yellow as the dawn. The mosaics on the ground were brown and ivory. There were three exits on the other side of the fountain. One was surrounded by roses the color of honey apricots, and another by roses as delicate as a maiden's blush. The one in the middle was framed with red roses. Sarah chose this exit.

At the end of the passage was a third courtyard. Mosaics of gold made a path winding around the three tiered fountain, crowned with a little statue of a mermaid. The roses here were red. Seven doorways ringed the courtyard.

As they walked around the fountain, she noticed something. Not all the roses were red. Someone was standing on a ladder, a bucket of red paint at his feet while he painted the roses red. How curious! Even more curious was the figure. He was not a playing card -- which Sarah felt would have made perfect sense -- but a diminutive little man. White hat sprouted from under his skullcap over his protuberant ears, and he was dressed in a dirty white shirt, brown vest, brown pants, and blue shoes. A pouch, glittering with gold, dangled from his belt.

"Ah, Sir Hoggle!" Didymus declared, hailing the dwarf.

The dwarf turned and nearly dropped his paintbrush. "You!" he screeched, shaking the still wet paintbrush at her. Drops of red splattered on the mosaic tiles. They glistened wetly, like blood. He climbed down the ladder, advancing on them with waving arms. "What are you doing here? You shouldn't be here. Go home, igo home!/i"

But Sarah's attention was on the plastic bracelet on his wrist. "My mother gave me that bracelet," she said dreamily, stepping closer so that she could grab his wrist. He tried to pull away, but she held on. "I thought I'd lost it, when I was fifteen," she continued slowly. "Right after I had a strange dream. I dreamt... oh, I dreamt of you!"

Hoggle pulled his arm back. "It's mine!" he snapped. "You gave it to me, fair and square. Don't think you're getting it back."

"Yes... I dreamt that I gave you the bracelet in return for help," Sarah continued, staring at the wizened face that glared balefully back. The words came without prompting, without conscious thought. "Because I was alone, and you were the only friend I had."

"Yeah, ihad/i," Hoggle retorted. "Ain't friends no more, not when you don't remember us! Don't speak to us, ever. For seven years, missy. What sort of friend is that?" But despite his hard words, his face fell as he sat down on the ladder. "Oh, Sarah, why did you have to come back?"

----------------------------------------------------

* If anyone hasn't seen the movie iVanilla Sky/i with Tom Cruise (pre couch jumping and Scientology) and Penelope Cruz, I highly recommend it.

** iThe Labyrinth will give its denizens safe passage/i -- an attempt to explain why the goblins, stupid as they are, can navigate the Labyrinth.


	9. The Hour of Monsters

**Disclaimer:**

Standard disclaimers apply.

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson and its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

----------------------------------------------------

**Chapter 8  
The Hour of Monsters**

"Right," Luke said out loud as he approached the outer wall of the Labyrinth. "Thirteen hours should be enough to find Sarah and get us back in time for opening night. It's not so hard."

The walls loomed above him, its stony surface menacing and uninviting. Bits of metal stuck between the cracks, remnants of past challengers and their attempts to gain entry. The ground around the maze was dust. It floated into the air when disturbed, clinging to his clothes and face as he circled the maze, searching for an opening. Overhead, the sun blazed with sweltering heat. He wiped his face, smearing dust over his sleeve, where it gleamed sickly yellow against the grey fabric. Oh well. Nothing a little dry cleaning couldn't fix. He wondered if he could last thirteen hours without water. But Sarah was waiting, somewhere within the walls of this dismal Labyrinth.

"There must be an opening _somewhere_," he muttered, running his hands over its stony surface. Perhaps there was a hidden catch. His fingers met only hot unyielding stone. The wall refused to move. "I don't believe this, do I have to walk around the entire Labyrinth before I find a frickin' opening anywhere?"

"You just ain't seeing it!" a voice declared somewhere close to his feet. Luke looked down.

A worm -- it couldn't be anything else -- looked back at him with wide eyes. That is, if worms were blue and had hair -- three tufts of it, shooting out of its head like sparklers. More astoundingly, it had a red scarf around its neck. Luke wondered if he was losing his mind from the heat and the thirst, if his mind had conjured up such a ridiculous character.

"Did you just talk?" he asked the worm. "You're a talking worm?"

"Yeah, that's right!" the worm replied happily. This young man had some brains, even if he lacked imagination. "Are you trying to get inside the Labyrinth?"

"Yes, but I don't see any openings anywhere, and I've walked around this wall for about thirty minutes already," Luke complained, leaning against the wall. "How can I solve the Labyrinth if I can't even get inside it?"

"You just ain't seeing the openings," the worm told the human sagely, nodding his head at the same time. His three tufts of blue hair wagged with the motion. "There's one over there, just a little to your left."

Luke stared at the wall indicated, bewilderment plain upon his face. "I don't see an opening," he said dumbly, turning back to the worm. "There isn't an opening."

"Of course there's an opening!" the worm declared. "You just look again."

Sure enough, when Luke turned around again, a simple wooden door lay in the wall. "That wasn't there before," he said accusingly, touching the door hesitantly, as if to make sure it was real. It felt solid enough under his hand, the surface reassuringly grainy and weathered. He turned the doorknob.

The worm shrugged, despite its lack of limbs and shoulders. "Ye can't take anything for granted in the Labyrinth," it warned. "Are you sure you really want to go in there?"

"Yes," Luke said. The doorknob yielded to his touch, and the door opened slowly on creaking hinges. "There's someone in there waiting for me."

----------------------------------------------------

The architect of the Labyrinth must have a _sick_ mind, Luke decided as he picked his way through the decrepit twisting maze, its walls carved with distorted faces that screamed silently. Poor souls that were trapped in the very stones of the Labyrinth, waiting to be released by the prince who would eventually solve the convoluted web of passages and slay the monster at its heart. He wondered what horrors their unseeing eyes had witnessed. But he had no Ariadne to give him a ball of string.

Instead, he used his lighter to char the end of a branch, using the blackened end to mark the walls of the Labyrinth. Luke congratulated himself on his cleverness. He did not see the walls shift and turn behind him, picking themselves up on chicken legs and walk to their new places. Neither did he see the goblins that changed his markings, either pulling the stone bricks out of the walls and turning them around to point backwards or until they were blank side up, nor the goblins that brandished their own pieces of charcoal, emulating his markings on previously blank stones.

When he walked past a particular grotesque screaming face again, he paused. He remembered this face, the way its nose was chipped on the end, the crumbling left cheekbone, and the patch of moss that covered one blank eye. But it could happen to any face here, enduring for hundreds of years. But when he passed five such faces, Luke knew he was walking in circles.

"It's not fair," he yelled, throwing his stick at the ground like a petulant child. "Someone must be changing my marks or something, because there is no other way I'd walk past the same face five times!"

"You're right," Jareth said.

Luke looked up. The Goblin King was reclining on top of the wall. There was absolutely nothing Aboveground about his clothes this time, nothing to disguise the otherworldliness of the other man. The open sapphire blue shirt with its loose wide sleeves gathered at the wrists, reminiscent of the Orient, revealed a white sculpted chest untouched by any earthly sun. Thick golden cuffs, like golden arm guards, adorned his wrists and set off his black gloves. A golden sash girt his thin waist, as bright as the sun, yet not as bright as the pendant that flashed upon Jareth's white chest, gleaming with an eldritch glow. His breeches were grey, tucked into brown boots. His exotic clothing only served to enhance the ethereal beauty of that cruel and fey face.

Jareth grinned. "How are you enjoying my Labyrinth?" he asked kindly.

Luke glared at Jareth, who merely smiled back merrily. He looked much too amused. "Did you mean, I'm right that it's not fair, or that I'm right that someone is changing my marks?" he asked slowly, anger a simmering heat inside his belly.

Jareth cocked his head. "Both."

You play dirty," Luke said. "Changing my marks, tricking me into naming Sarah as the stakes."

"You forgot to mention that the Labyrinth changes," Jareth added helpfully.

"That's not fair!" Luke cried.

Jareth cocked his head, saying mildly, "I have never said that I would play fair."

"What about the rules?"

"Rules?" Jareth laughed. "The rules were only that you had to solve the Labyrinth within thirteen hours. I have never promised that I would play fair or that the Labyrinth would remain constant throughout the thirteen hours. You've already used up two hours and eleven minutes."

"You," Luke said calmly, his voice shaking with rage and hatred, "are a conniving randy bogus Oriental old queen.* Where is Sarah?"

"No, I'm a King," Jareth said cheerfully. "By the way, that's quite an interesting string of insults, did you pick that up from an English friend? That's not how Americans usually insult people. As for Sarah, would you like to see her?"

Luke didn't need to answer. The eagerness in his face was painful to see. A smitten puppy, Jareth thought sadistically and maybe even a little pitying. The cruelty in the girl had not vanished in the woman. _Does she realize the pain she causes to this man, this boy? Yet even if she does, she does not have the kindness to end his torment, _Jareth thought, even as he conjured a crystal ball with a twist of his hand, seeming to shape it out of empty air. It fell into Luke's open hands.

Sarah's image was clearly visible upon its smooth surface. The perspective pulled back, zooming out to include the scenery around her -- a beautiful garden of roses, deep as heart's blood, that nestled a fountain of sparkling water. Sarah sat upon the edge of the fountain. Her eyes were closed, as if she listened to music they could not hear, music that made her cry with its sorrow and its beauty.

"Why is she crying?" Luke demanded, his fingers tightening around the bauble. "What have you done to her? If she's hurt --"

"I haven't done anything to her," Jareth snapped, turning his face away from the sweaty bedraggled young man. "Not this time, despite the fact that I would be within my rights. Do you have any idea what she did to me the last time she was here?"

"What, did she cut up your clothes?" Luke sneered. "Give you a reality check?"

"No, actually. She solved my Labyrinth and tore it to pieces."

Luke laughed harshly, tossing the crystal back up to the Goblin King. Jareth caught it with one hand. "Is that what this is about? Some sick revenge against her, all because she beat you?" he asked. "And you've decided to rope me into it, because, I don't know, you had no other way to get to her?"

Jareth cocked his head. "I think you've hit the nail on the head, my fine fellow," he answered. "Although you're here not so much because I need you to get to Sarah, but because you are just so amusing!" Here he punctuated his statement with a hearty laugh, before sobering. "Besides, you shouldn't worry about Sarah, she's a capable girl. She solved the Labyrinth once seven years ago, I know she'll find my castle again. You should worry about your progress first before you worry about her. "

A deafening roar split the air. It was deeper than a lion's roar, crueler than the bellow of a bear, and wilder than the howl of a wolf. It spoke of rage and murder and hunger. It was the voice of every monster a child has ever imagined and feared, the elusive and shadowy figure of the unknown danger that lurks in the darkness after the parents have turned off the light and gone to bed. Luke's head whipped towards the sound, his body tensing with fear -- fear that he'd forgotten he'd ever felt. Fear that he'd thought he'd left behind with his childhood. The roar sounded again, this time closer than before.

"Or your welfare," Jareth added. "I'll wait for you in my castle."

He had vanished from his perch, leaving Luke alone and weaponless. "I'm not afraid, I'm not afraid," the director muttered to himself, even as he groped along the ground for anything that could be weapon -- a stick, a rock, anything. He touched only the dust of the arid ground. The roar sounded a third time. It was right on the other side of the wall.

----------------------------------------------------

A little boy huddled inside his blankets, drawn high over his head. No one else was awake. His parents had gone to bed hours ago. His mother had drawn the blanket up to his chin,and kissed him, smelling of perfume and soap and cinnamon. He loved the way she smelled, clean and nice, just the way that mothers ought to smell. Then she'd turned off the lights and shut the door.

Outside his fortress of sheets and pillows, the only light was the dim glow of streetlights outside his window, yellow and sinister. They did nothing to illuminate the room, but deepening the shadows that stretched across the carpeted floor. Underneath the blanket, he clutched a flashlight to his chest, a talisman against the darkness and whatever dwelt within it.

The grandfather clock downstairs began to chime, each sound echoing in the silence. They trembled in the air, clinging to the sound of their own existence before fading in nothing. Ripples of sound that grew as they expanded, each echo reached out into the nooks and corners of the house. They touched the shadows, disturbing their quietude. The chimes rang, once, twice, twelve times, thirteen times.

It was the hour of monsters.

----------------------------------------------------

Luke ran, propelled by pure terror that blinded him to his surroundings. He was only conscious of the beast that chased him. He felt its presence behind him acutely, a pressure that pushed against his back. He felt the heat radiating from its body, its foul breath from its open snarling mouth, so close to him. Too close. He heard its labored breath as it gave chase, its paws thudding on the dusty path, a countdown to his doom. Fear was a weight upon his shoulders, slowing him down, pulling him down to the ground.

It had burst through the wall in an explosion of rocks and debris and spittle. Luke had caught a glimpse of a shaggy yeti-like monster, with horns that curved forward cruelly on its head, and hands as large as boulders. Its fur was as red as blood, red with blood. Only a glimpse, before the monster howled, a sound that raised the hairs on Luke's back. It brought back the memory of every nightmare that had ever shaken him out of sleep, that had ever kept him awake in the dark of night, that had ever made him afraid of the dark. It had shaken him out of his paralysis.

He'd turned and fled.

Luke could only hope that his smaller size, his agility, would save him. He ducked into sudden side entrances and changed directions frequently. Each time, he heard the monster skid past, a few precious seconds of silence, before the monster began to catch up again. _Please don't let this be a dead end, please, please, please, _he begged internally as he threw himself down an alley to his right. Instead, he was confront with two sets of doors, each guarded by the most curious creature with a shield as large as its body. They had faces like old men, except their noses and their ears were more akin to dogs in old claymation cartoons on Saturday mornings. One was dressed in red, and the other in blue.

"Oh, dear god," he panted. "Quick, which one do I choose?"

Faces peered out from _under_ the shields, identical to the faces above the arms. "Depends on where yer trying to go," said the upside down face under the red shield. "One of these doors leads to the castle --"

"And the other leads to certain death!" finished his upside-down companion.

"Okay, um, I'm already facing certain death. Which doors leads to the castle?" Luke asked hurriedly.

"Can't tell ya!" one of the faces declared. "Ye gotta ask one of them, but only one of them" the other added, indicating the standing figures with a toss of the head.

"Except one of us always tells the truth," began the guard in red.

"And one of us always lies," the one in blue finished. "I always tell the truth."

"Oh, what a lie!" the other protested.

"Shit, one of those logic quizzes" Luke cursed, thinking quickly. It was difficult to focus his thoughts, which kept turning back towards the monster that was chasing him. "Um, um, okay... Here, you in red. You answer. Which door would the other guy tell me he guards?"

A flash of uncertainly flashed across the guard's face. He leaned down behind his shield to consult his companion.

"Sorry to rush you, but could you hurry up please?" Luke begged.

"Um, certain death?"

Luke began to push open the door behind the blue guard. "Hey, how do you know that's the right door?" the guard demanded, highly curious and equally perplexed. The young man only shook his head and slammed the door. As it swung shut, Luke saw the great red beast burst into the clearing with a great roar. The guards tumbled from their positions in fear. Then the door was shut, and it was blissfully dark and quiet. He was safe.

Sighing with relief, he took a step backwards away from the door. His foot landed on empty air.

----------------------------------------------------

Everyone falls in the Labyrinth. The challenger fell through the earth into the darkness of the oubliette. Its denizens live in perpetual fear of falling into the Bog of Eternal Stench. The falling of a kingdom. Falling from grace. Always constantly falling. Falling down, falling apart, falling into, falling for. Falling in love. Falling. Falling. Falling.

----------------------------------------------------

The painted eyes of the portrait gazed back sedately, full of secrets that could not be betrayed by an unmoving mouth; softer than the real eyes of the subject; and also sadder, despite the smile painted upon the lips.

He brushed his fingers against the painted pout, remembering the feeling of actual lips against his skin. The canvas was cold and rough under the layer of red oil paints, which had dried and hardened since completion -- so unlike the real thing. He closed his eyes, bringing to mind the memory of the brief contact, the softness and smoothness of her, the warmth of her breath. He felt again the deep thrill that had sang in his blood, more powerful than any adrenaline rush or any magical rush, headier than any wine he'd tasted and more intoxicating than any drug he'd offered.

In that moment, he'd realized how fragile humans were. How fragile she was. He had felt her living breath upon his skin, and with that touch came the realization of her mortality. Unlike this portrait, which would never age nor fade with time, she would one day die. The delicate fluttering pulse he'd felt beneath his fingers would lie still. The warm breath would stop. How easily he could have crushed her in that moment. He could have extinguished the light in those fearless eyes. He could have avenged himself and rewritten a new ending to the story.

But he hadn't. So instead, he stood before a painted version of his nemesis, imagining that it was her mouth he touched now. Imagining that the lips he now pressed his own against were real and soft and warm and yielding, that he kissed the woman and not a painting.

Imagining her limp, lifeless body as he sucked her breath from her.

----------------------------------------------------

Linda Williams knocked on the apartment door again, waiting. No one answered. When her second knock went unanswered, she drew out the spare key Sarah had given her and let herself into the apartment.

Immediately, Merlin bounded up to her, whining desperately. He pawed at her skirt, tossing his head towards the kitchen. "Are you the reason the landlord called me and told me to come over?" Linda asked, leading Merlin back into the kitchen. She saw that his food bowl and water bowl were both empty. "Strange. Sarah spoils you. She wouldn't have let your water bowl go dry."

But Merlin refused to stay in the kitchen. He wrestled himself free from Linda and bounded into the living room, where he clawed at the french windows leading to the balcony. Apprehensive, Linda opened the doors and looked outside. A cup of hot chocolate, long since gone cold, sat on the railing. Next to it was a snow globe, glittering like a crystal ball in the light of the street lamps.

The blood drained out of her face.

----------------------------------------------------

Deep within the Labyrinth, a young woman approached the heart of the fortress.

The Goblin City was strangely empty. No guard stood vigil outside its gates, no goblin denizen walked the streets. The air tingled with uncustomary silence, devoid of the usual din of drunken revelry and chicken chasing. It was not the silence of sleep, but the silence of emptiness. Silence that yearned for the faintest whisper, swallowing the slightest noise -- the rustle of Sarah's clothes, the sigh of each exhalation, the gentle fluttering of her pulse -- and magnifying each until the echoes circled back louder than the original. The Goblin City stood deserted.

And there! beyond the Goblin City, hidden deep within a fortress of thorns, the castle waited. The castle tower loomed high above her, buried under creeping briar. Only the summit of the tower was bare, thrusting out of the thicket like a glittering beacon in the waning light of dusk.

The thorns parted before her.

----------------------------------------------------

* Has anyone seen the short "Jazzin' for Blue Jean"?

Author's note: Somehow, eight chapters have gone by, and I'm only just beginning to use the concepts I've planned since the beginning of the story. For instance, the portrait of Sarah has always been lurking in the background, waiting to be unveiled. Points to anyone who can guess the inspiration for that particular scene, although it may be a little backwards and distorted from the original. Perhaps not distorted, but twisted. Very, very twisted. The answer will be announced when the next inspired scene (maybe even more than one!) is written, lest it be spoiled.


	10. Story of a Mother

**Disclaimer: **

Standard disclaimers apply.

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson and its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

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**Chapter 9  
A Story of a Mother (I)**

Once upon a time, a woman made a wish.

She was beautiful and passionate and ambitious, and men flocked around her in hopes of a kindly smile from her. It seemed as if the world was hers for the taking, should she so choose. And when a rich and handsome man asked her to marry him, she said yes.

For a time, they were happy. Her husband showered her with rich gifts, and they were much admired as the perfect couple. When she bore a beautiful little girl, as pretty as any princess in a fairy tale with ebony black hair, white skin, and red lips, her world seemed absolutely perfect. And they were happy. She would play with her daughter, fussing over the child's perfect fingers and perfect toes and combing out her glossy black curls. In the evening, her husband would come home and kiss his beautiful wife and daughter, and when she tucked the child to bed, she would read her a story about fairies and goblins. The woman thought she couldn't be happier

Unfortunately, her words were truer than she realized. Her ambitious heart refused to be satisfied, even with a husband who loved her and a lovely daughter. It was not enough to be loved and needed only by two people. She wanted to be admired by everyone. She desired fame and glory.

One day, frustrated by the confines of her house and the needs of her daughter, the woman snapped. When her daughter asked her for the story about goblins, she slapped the child. But it was not enough.

"I hate you!" she cried. "If not for you, I would be famous! I would have glory! I would be living my dreams! I hate you, I hate you, _I hate you!_ To hell with your stupid goblins, always your stupid goblins. I wish I'd never had you. In fact, I wish the goblins would come and take you away right now!"

But the child did not cry, staring back at her mother with wide green eyes. Her composure incensed her mother further. She gave the child a shove. The world slowed down as she watched the child fall backwards. They had been standing atop the stairs. The child was falling...falling...falling.... Her heart stopped to see the broken body of her child lying on the bottom of the stairs. Her beautiful daughter, broken. Her beautiful daughter, taken away from her.

With a sob, she rushed down to where the broken child lay and cradled her in her arms. "Oh, my poor child, I did not mean it," she sobbed. "Come back, my little girl. Come back."

"It's too late," said the Goblin King, an impossibly powerful figure clad in raiments of the darkest night. His wild hair glittered with starlight, and his breath was as cold as the winter wind. "Your daughter is mine now."

The woman clutched the child to her. "But I didn't mean it," she protested. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

Yet he shook his head. "What's said is said," he said. "Words cannot be taken back, and neither can wishes. However, perhaps we can make a bargain."

The woman grew pale. "What sort of bargain?"

"Your daughter is worth nothing to me at her present age," the Goblin King continued. He knelt down beside the woman and the child. "She is too old to become one of us, and yet too young to be of any interest. Perhaps I will let you keep her, until she old enough. So I let you keep her for now. I will give you ten years time, ten years to let her grow up. Ten years for you to know her. Ten years before I come and claim her."

"She is just a child now!" the mother cried. "Ten years is too short a time for her. She will be barely more than child after ten years."

The Goblin King leaned closer. "I cannot offer more," he said. "But it is still generous. Accept my offer, or else I take your daughter tonight. But I will give you something in return for your daughter. I know your dreams. I will offer you your dreams."

There was nothing but kindness in his pale blue eyes, so close to her own. One eye, its pupil dilated larger, was almost all black, surrounded by a ring of blue. In it, she could see the stars and moon. She saw herself reflected. She saw her daughter.

"Don't you want to keep your daughter?" he asked again.

The woman looked at the pale face of her daughter and closed her eyes. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I do."

Sarah opened her eyes.

----------------------------------------------------

Author's Note: MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.


	11. I Desire

**Disclaimer: **

Standard disclaimers apply.

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson and its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

"Aníron" composed and performed by Enya, lyrics by Roma Ryan.

----------------------------------------------------

**Chapter 10**

**I Desire**

The Great Hall had fallen into disrepair. Already damaged by centuries of goblin revelry, the sparse furnishings were now patinated with dust and cobwebs. Her footsteps landed dull and heavy upon the dusty stone floor, disturbing the dust so that it swirled in the dim light before drifting back to earth. Even the throne was empty, its coverings tattered and grey with age and dust. Broken chains littered the floor, and in the corner, a deep dark stain Sarah didn't want to think about. Seven years could not have wrecked such a change.

There was only one way to go from here, and her foot hesitated on the first step of the staircase. Memories, newly recovered, of a room that defied gravity overwhelmed her with vertigo, even more dizzying than Escher pictures. A room littered with staircases in all directions, which had haunted her nightmares for the past seven years, nightmares she'd forgotten as soon as she'd woken up. No up and no down, no grounding direction to stabilize her, and she was falling, falling, falling.... Except she still stood with her foot on the first step of the staircase, clutching the wall for balance.

She began to climb.

Her progress was slow, unhurried. There was no baby brother to save this time, no thirteen hour time clock to race against. There was only the Goblin King, who waited for her somewhere in his labyrinthian castle. There was only Jareth.

_"We'll go with you," Hoggle said firmly. "Who knows what that rat Jareth has planned this time. Three pairs of eyes is better than one, and four pairs even better once we find Ludo."_

_"Sir Hoggle is right," Didymus agreed. "His Majesty is old and cunning. There may be a trap."_

_But Sarah refused their offer, her eyes gazing at something far away that they could not see. "No, I must do this alone," she said. When they began to protest, she silenced them with a gesture of her hands, as if suppressing their words physically. "You all helped me last time, for which I am very grateful. I am very grateful. But there is no quest this time. This is strictly between Jareth and me, and I cannot involve you two. I must finish this, whatever it is that is between us."_

The stairs led to a large circular atrium. The architecture, unlike the Great Hall downstairs, unlike the Escher room she remembered from seven years ago, was opulent and smooth. The floor was laid with golden and white marble, polished to a mirror bright gleam. Seven doors lined the walls, each doorframe carved with ornate Rococo scrollwork. Her footsteps echoed noisily, thrown back to her ears in mocking imitations by the circular wall, until it seemed like the room was full of invisible goblins prancing around her.

She chose the fourth door, right across from where she stood. The door swung open easily on silent hinges, in shape contrast with the disuse she'd found downstairs. Candles burst into flame as she stepped through, illuminating a vast ballroom even grander than the atrium outside. The walls were hung with tapestries and heavy velvet curtains, each running riot with golden embroidery. The ceiling was painted as dark as the night sky, each star an inlaid diamond that sparkled brightly. A chandelier of crystals and maidens' tears glittered in the center, as bright as the moon. The splendor of the room made Sarah feel small and shabby in her scuffed jeans and dirty boots and her hair tumbling down around her face in messy tendrils.

"Dance with me," Jareth commanded. He stepped out of the shadows that lingered at the edge of the ballroom.

He was dressed in crimson brocade, his shoulders and throat glittering with rubies and garnets in the candlelight. His pale blond hair glimmered with starlight, highlighted with streaks of burgundy. He held out his gloved hands to her, beckoning. Music began to play from an invisible source, hauntingly familiar and wistful.

She felt no surprise at the sight of him. In truth, she had been expecting him.

Sarah obeyed. Taking his hand, she let him whirl her around the empty ballroom. His hand on her waist was sure and firm. She felt the weight of skirts swish about her body, heard the whisper of beads in her hair, but her attention was centered on the handsome face that looked back so intently at her. She gazed at him, studying the strange compelling eyes, the one eye as blue as water, and the other with the dilated pupil. She wondered what things he'd seen with that eye, so dark and so deep, if he saw things no one else could.

When she asked him, he laughed kindly at her. There was no mockery in his face, only admiration. "I see you," he replied seriously, smiling down at her. "You are so very beautiful."

The feeling of his hands on her was thrilling. It touched a chord deep within her, resurrecting a memory of a dream with a dream. She remembered wearing the most beautiful dress she'd ever imagined, the bodice twinkling with little gems, with layers and layers of heavy silk skirts. She remembered glass slippers on her feet, and the taste of champagne and peaches. She remembered dancing with a handsome stranger, who wore the night sky as his coat.

She stepped out of Jareth's arms, away from him. As she stepped away from him, the glamour melted off her and dissolved into mist and glitter that lingered momentarily in the air before vanishing into nothing. The dream protested, clinging to reality even as Sarah banished it back to the darkness of her unconsciousness. She became Sarah Williams again in her dirty jeans and messy hair. Not a princess, not even a scullery maid, just ordinary Sarah Williams before the Goblin King in all his glory.

He reached out a hand for her, but Sarah took another step back, away from his outreached hand. The hand became a clenched fist. "I can't," she said. "I just want to go home."

"It's still not enough, is it?" he asked, his face once again impassive as ice. No, not impassive. Anger smoldered in his eyes, unadulterated and tangible. She recoiled involuntarily from it. "Even after the dreams I sent you, even when I reorder my Labyrinth to the shape of your dreams, it is still not enough. What will it take? I am exhausted from living up to your expectations of me. Even seven years later, it seems I will never live up to them. How is it that you can have such power over me, when I have none over you?"

"I don't know what you want from me," she protested. "I'm just... I'm just a normal girl, trying to live my life. I made the wrong wish once, but does it really have to affect my whole life? Can't you just...can't you just leave me alone? Please? Or are you really going to punish me my whole life for one mistake I made when I was fifteen?"

She couldn't have imagined the pain that flashed in his strange eyes, the barest hesitation as his anger dissipated, before he replied, "It was not your mistake that put you in this situation."

"What do you mean?"

"Consequences, Sarah," he answered quietly. A crystal ball danced across his fingers as lightly as a bubble, twinkling in and out of sight with each gesture of his hand. Sarah stared at it, transfixed by his control over the bauble. "Ripples that grow and expand, until even the water can't contain them anymore."

The crystal vanished.

Jareth continued, his lips quirking in an unkind smile. "The story must play out. The princess must be saved. The knight in shining armor must vanquish the evil monster. You are a guest in my castle, even as I ask you not to leave. While you are here, the castle is yours to command, as long as you do not come near the tallest tower. Otherwise, I promise you that you will be unharmed."

"The promise of a goblin? What does that count for?" Sarah retorted.

Jareth's eyes flashed dangerously. "The promise of a king."

"And I suppose I play the role of the princess in your distorted fairy tale." Sarah asked sarcastically. "Who then, _pray tell_, is this _knight_ coming to save me? A stolen child?"

Jareth raised an eyebrow. She needed no other answer.

"Oh, my god, _Luke_. What have you done?"

"Nothing," he replied, shrugging nonchalantly. "I have done nothing, except grant the wishes of two very foolish people. You chose to see again the sights you'd forgotten. Luke chose to save you from the danger he imagined you were in. Consequently, I very generously transported you both to my Labyrinth."

"And you twisted our intentions, just as you always do!" she snapped. Anger was a soft warmth under her skin. It drove away the cold fear that threatened to overwhelm her.

He raised his eyebrows. "Have I? How foolish of me," he said. a smile spreading slowly and cruelly over his lips.

"Don't play stupid, Jareth! I don't want your _generosity_, as you call it. Why can't you just leave us alone?"

Jareth shook his head. "Unfortunately, precious thing, I can't just leave you alone, as you put it. There are rules, after all. You have to play by my rules while in the Labyrinth. Thirteen hours have I granted your little friend, the same conditions I gave you when you ran my Labyrinth," he replied, stepping back into the shadows that reclaimed him eagerly. His figure melted into the darkness, until all she could see was his face, cold and cruel in the candlelight, and the rubies that glittered like blood drops upon his throat. "But I find it hard to deny you anything, precious. As you wished for solitude, I shall grant it to you."

And he was gone, leaving Sarah alone in the grand empty ballroom.

----------------------------------------------------

Sarah wandered through the halls of the castle. Candles lined the walls in crystal sconces. As she passed each candle, it burst into flame, illuminating her passage through the darkness with a golden glow, extinguishing once she walked past. She could neither see forward nor backwards. There were no windows, only a long passage of stone that stretched out endless before her and after her.

"What dream of mine do you think you're gratifying this time?" she murmured into the silence.

As he'd promised, she was quite alone. No goblins obstructed her progress, no friends to alleviated the loneliness. Every once in a while, she came upon an open door. The rooms inside were more splendid than anything she'd ever seen, carpeted with plush red velvet and furnished with golden brocade and polished mahogany. Chinoiserie cabinets of curios bookshelves lined with old tomes suggested wealth beyond imagination. Fires roared into existence as soon as she stepped into each room, banishing the chill and gloom of centuries. She explored a series of magnificent rooms one after another, each more resplendent than the previous. Yet she felt that they each lacked something, something she couldn't put her finger on.

The last room she came upon was a bedroom. In here, the four poster bed was covered with intricate scrollwork that proved to be creeping roses upon closer inspection. They were repeated in the dusty pink damask of the canopy over the bed and the sheets on the bed. They ran riot over the deep red brocade curtains that lined the window cut into the stone wall. Roses littered the room, exploding out of porcelain and crystal vases. Their perfume pervaded the air, assaulting her senses as soon as she entered the room, wild and mysterious and sensual.

"Oh!"

She'd smelled this scent before. The roses she'd found outside her door had smelled the same. It seemed so long ago, even though it was only a few days, the memory as faded and as vivid as a dream. They'd been addressed to "Beauty," to her. He had sent the roses. A gift to Beauty from her Beast.

"I suppose you think you're witty," she said to the listening silence. She did not doubt that he was watching her from some secret hiding place within the castle.

In answer, the doors of the mahogany wardrobe opened, revealing a horde of beautiful gowns. Reams of luxurious silk and satin and velvet tumbled out, gleaming with gems and embroidery, fancier than any costume she'd ever worn for a play. She knew instantly that they would all fit her perfectly. Drawers slid out, revealing strings pearls and golden chains set with such glittering jewels that would tempt any dragon or the vainest princess.

"No shoes, Jareth?" she asked lightly, raising one eyebrow. "Dresses become rags, but slippers made of glass endure."

"But I don't intend to let you run away from me this time, precious," he drawled. His voice was behind her, and Sarah turned to find him lounging in the doorway. Compared to his earlier splendor in the ballroom, he was dressed simply enough in a fine dove grey cambric shirt that hung open, with a profusion of lace at the cuffs falling over black gloves, under a black waistcoat cut low to reveal his sculpted chest and the pendant that hung there. His breeches were blue-grey, tucked into tall brown boots. Yet even without his finery, he was more handsome than any prince or king she could imagine.

She refused to let that thought take hold.

"I thought you said thirteen hours," she said. "Yet you have prepared for a much longer stay than I've intended."

"I merely thought you might like to be more comfortable," he replied with a shrug of his elegant shoulders. She found it infuriating that he should be so calm. "A change of clothes, a place to rest, a place of privacy."

Sarah snorted. "More of your generosity?" she mocked.

"Indeed," Jareth agreed pleasantly. "Besides, you forget that I can reorder time. Thirteen hours for little Luke may be thirteen days for you."

"You wouldn't."

Jareth raised his eyebrows. "Oh, wouldn't I?" he countered. He pushed himself from the doorway and stalked towards her, his steps as silent as a cat. Sarah took a step back from the heat in his blue eyes, even as he reached up with his hands and cupped her face between them. His touch was warm, even through the delicate leather, and one thumb brushed against her cheek tenderly. "You have no idea what else I would do," he murmured in her ear. Sarah's breath caught in her throat. His breath on her neck was warm and intimate, sending shivers down her spine that was both thrilling and frightening at the same time.

His hands slipped down, fingers caressing the curve of her jaw, tracing the line of her neck until they came to the base of her throat. Here, he could feel the fluttering of her pulse through his gloves, so strong and irregular. He smirked with the knowledge that he had upset her, unnerved her, ruffled her feathers. "For instance," he breathed, resting his hands on either side of her beautiful slim neck. He pulled back to look at her face, flushed a delicate shade of rosy red. Her eyes were unfocused, watching him from under hooded eyelids, and her lips were parted in surprise. His own eyes were dark with desire.

"How I would love to break you."

Sarah's eyes snapped over in alarm, but he'd released her already. She stumbled backwards from him, her hand upon her neck where he had rested his only moments ago. "But I promised you that no harm would come to you, not even from me," he continued dispassionately, staring at his fingers as he flexed them. He turned away from her. "Besides, I did not bring you for revenge. As I've said, you are here as a result of other people's mistakes and careless wishes. I will not harm you. Even if the word of a Goblin King means so little to you." He strode to the open window, resting both hands on the wide stone sill as he stared out at his domain.

Her skin still tingled with the memory of his hands, and she rubbed her neck with her sleeve, as if trying to rub away the taint of that contact. It shamed her to remember how wildly her heart had palpitated, how she had stood there and let him touch her. Not lasciviously, no, but it had excited her more than anything else had ever had. The dark promise of his words had sent a jolt through her core, shattering her composure into a million crystal fragments. She stared at his back warily. He did not turn. It was curious how strangely tragic he looked, staring out the window, the moon casting pale long shadows upon his handsome face. How alone. The thought surprised her.

"Listen!" he said suddenly.

In the distance, someone was singing. The voice was clear and pure, flying high on the evening breeze, turning everything it touched into purest gold in Sarah's imagination. It unfurled and became the night sky, scattering jewels across the velvet expanse, where they clung and echoed back the refrain of the song. It drew her towards the window, heedless of Jareth's presence.

"What is she singing?" she asked in wonder.

"She sings of desire," he replied, low and close to her ear. His voice was now deep and compelling; it caressed her with velvet like softness. It was not any less beautiful than the voice that sang in the distance.

"Look! A star rises out of the darkness

The song of the star enchants my heart

Ah! I desire...."

She felt her defenses drop with the beauty of the music, her soul reaching out, unfurling in surrender at its caress, letting it possess her. His voice intoxicated her.

Sarah turned to face him, his face so close to her own in the moonlight. She saw the strange alien and cruel beauty of his face, softened by the gloom and shadows into something resembling softness. He was smiling, and that something resembling softness blossomed into something more, something Sarah could not name. He gazed back at her steadily, intently, never blinking. In the darkness, his left eye seemed black, ringed with blue. In it, she could see the reflection of the stars and moon. She could see herself.

"And what do you desire?" she heard herself asking.

The smile faded from his lips as they parted, half in wonder, half in reply. The words spoke themselves, unbidden and unmediated, drawn out of him by nothing less than pure surprise.

"To be...."

He blinked, caught off guard by his own answer. To be what? Yet he knew the answer already, and he felt his world fall apart around him with the realization of what he'd refused to acknowledge his entire existence. What he thought he'd given up and forgotten, so long ago, only to wake up thousands of years later and reclaim him in its suffocating grasp. There, always there, underneath the malice and mischief that determined his actions. A savage hungriness that left him empty, hollow, and unfulfilled.

_O môr henion i dhu:_

_Ely siriar, êl síla_

_Ai! Aníron Undómiel..._

He became aware of Sarah watching him thoughtfully. And strangely, for all his magic and knowledge, for all his longevity, he felt himself exposed by her fearless green eyes, which saw too keenly and too clearly. Eyes that were perplexed by what they saw. He raised an eyebrow, inviting her to share her confusion.

"I can't understand you at all," she confessed slowly, a little hesitantly. Not out of fear, but carefully, so that she would not trip over her own words. "The dreams I've been having, they really happened, didn't they? Just like how I convinced myself that our encounter seven years ago was a dream, but that really happened too. But you are always different. Sometimes you're cruel, and sometimes you are gentle and kind. It perplexes me. Even when you showed up outside my apartment, you were such a different person. Which one is the real you? Who are you really?"

"You know very well who I am," he replied pointedly.

Sarah shook her head. "No, I don't," she stated firmly. "You are Jareth, the Goblin King, but that tells me nothing. It's not even your real name."

Jareth smiled wanly. "I'm surprised you remember that.*"

"It doesn't explain anything though."

He reached for her again, and Sarah felt herself tense in anticipation, ready to move. Move where? Away or towards his touch? It didn't matter. She remained frozen, and Jareth's fingers brushed away a stray tendril of hair that had blown into her face. They did not touch her skin, and Sarah was oddly disappointed by the lack of counter. She could not know what it cost him to refrain from the contact.

"Why do you want to know so much about me?" he asked, his voice low. His eyes were inscrutable, lost in shadow and darkness.

"Because I refuse to believe you really are the wicked villain," she replied.

It was he who stepped towards her, closing the distance between them. His fingers, deprived of the softness of her skin, played instead of the lock of hair he'd brushed from her face, relishing the way they slipped as easily as silk between his fingers. Even seven years later, she still wore her hair long. If only he wasn't wearing his gloves right now....He twined a tendril around a finger, and smiling slowly and wickedly, lifted it to his lips. "Do you desire a hero instead?" he murmured, looking up into her eyes.

For the second time that night, Sarah felt her breath catch in her throat. Her heart beat furiously in her chest, a caged bird trapped and yearning for freedom. His eyes bore into hers, so close to her own, burning with dangerous intent. She could not speak. She could not breathe. Laughing silently at her speechlessness, he released her hair to take hold of her hand, half raised as though to ward him off. Turning it over, he pressed his lips against her palm.

His lips were a tender caress upon the sensitive skin, stealing all coherent thought from her mind. A remote part of her noticed in fascination how long his eyelashes were, the way they brushed against his cheek as he lowered his eyes to the task at hand. His mouth was a heat in her hand, spreading through her blood with languid fire. She could only watch, enthralled, as he drew his mouth back and forth, as if he sought to explore and conquer the unknown territories of her palm. Sarah couldn't think straight, couldn't think anything except for how gentle he was, how _delightful_ it felt....

"No...."

She tried to draw her hand away, but he held fast.

"No?" he asked softly, looking up at her with amused eyes. Never lifting his lips from her skin, he murmured against hr skin, his warm breath the lightest caress. Sarah shivered, not from cold. Jareth smiled at her reaction. "Not a hero then, my precious. Not a villain either. Always with the expectations, and I am generous enough to try and fulfill them."

His mouth was on her wrist now, right above the pulse that throbbed there. It was a battle not to lay her fingers against his cold sculpted cheek, a battle she won only because he seemed to determine his conquest complete. Almost. Entwining their fingers, he held her hand, palm to palm.

_And hand to hand is holy Palmer's kiss....shit. _Sarah kicked her inner actress in the shins._ I do not need Romeo and Juliet quoted at me right now. Or any references to a tragic love story that ends in teenage suicide.***_

"Tell me then, Sarah," he continued, leaning closer until his breath fanned her face, and she breathed in the scent of wild roses in his hair. "What do you desire?"

_From darkness I understand the night. _

_Dreams flow, a shine stars. _

_Ah, I desire the Evening Star.**_

----------------------------------------------------

* For anyone who has forgotten, a dream in Chapter 3: Roses.

** I changed the order of the song, just because it fit the flow of the story better. Unfortunately, I wasn't clever enough to write it to suit the flow of the song. Fail. =(

Also, you might also notice that "Evenstar" has been swapped for "Evening Star." That's because we are not in Tolkien's universe, and Jareth does NOT desire Arwen. Nor does Sarah, for that matter.

*** "Cop gives thumbs up to teenage suicide?" asked Tim Messenger eagerly. Nicholas stared at him as though he were crazy.

Author's Note: For once, no meddling supposed heroes. Because even I can't deny these two a moment (or a few) to themselves. Even Jareth had to succumb to that, because he refuses to behave. He knows his lines, what he's supposed to do to help the story play out, and he bloody refuses. It takes a lot of control to restrain him from ripping Sarah's clothes off as he pushes her onto the bed beneath him so that he can....

Ah, where was I? Oh yes, I think Jareth needs more space in his breeches. It's cutting off his circulation and thus seriously damaging his ability (and mine) to think properly. Although finally, a glimpse into his mind for once! Luckily, we get a glimpse when it's not quite as hormone-addled as it usually is.


	12. The Definition of Dreams

Disclaimer:

Standard disclaimers apply.

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson and its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

----------------------------------------------------

**As the World Falls Down**

**Chapter 11**

**The Definition of Dreams**

When the Disney version of _Cinderella _came out, Sarah had been ecstatic. She'd forced her father to buy her the video and watched it constantly, cheering sympathetically over Cinderella's escape from slavery and poverty. The sympathy for Cinderella blossomed into empathy when Linda left and when Toby was born. She'd sighed over the discovery of love in the palace, and she'd sung along as Cinderella taught the mice what exactly a dream was -- a wish that the heart makes. She had believed it, completely and irrevocably for years, cherishing her dreams with innocent wonder.

One day, when she was fifteen, her belief fell apart.

He had taken her dreams, her innocent maiden dreams, and twisted them into nightmares. A princess caught in a corrupted ballroom, surrounded by drunken perverted revelers in the throes of debauchery. A gigantic labyrinth filled with dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, she ran until she had lost all sense of direction and she no longer knew where she was or if anyone cared about her. She was lost, completely and utterly lost. There was no up, no down, and she was falling through the sky, with no one to catch her.

She'd wanted a prince. Instead, she'd found a king. A villain for the hero.

So she'd given up everything. Put away the story books. Hidden the toys and thrown away the costumes. Renounced the desires of the child Sarah and resigned herself to the expectations of maturity.

But what desires did the woman Sarah have?

"Release," she told the Goblin King. If he knew that she had lied, he said nothing. No, she had not lied. She craved released, she wanted it with every fiber of her body. Release from imprisonment, release from the dreary grayness her life had become, from the limited narrow scope of reality. She wanted all of that.

She tried to pull her hand back as she stepped away from him, but he held onto her firmly. He followed, step for step as she backed away, until she felt stone against her back.

Grinning in satisfaction, he placed his free hand on the wall, trapping her. "I think I can grant you that," he murmured silkily in her ear. She nearly jumped at the thrill it excited in her as he deliberately -- it must have been deliberate -- brushed his lips against her ear. Her lips parted in a soundless gasp. He laughed at her with his eyes as he placed another kiss on the back of her hand, still entwined with his.

"Not that kind of release!" she protested, realizing too late the implications of her answer.

He laughed out loud then, stepping away and releasing her. "This would have been a lot easier if you'd been quiet and let me seduce you," he informed her seriously, his mouth still curved in laughter.

"Of course I'm not going to," she forced out through gritted teeth.

"Such a pity," he replied, shaking his head. He bowed to her then, a low courtly bow. "I bid you goodnight, my fair lady. As I said, this room was prepared especially for you, a place of privacy. No one will disturb you here, not even me. Good night, Sarah. Dream of me."

He straightened. This time, his smile was wicked as he leaned forward to whisper once more in her ear, his breath teasing her neck.

"I'll certainly dream of you."

And then he was gone. Sarah could not whether magically of if he'd simply walked out the door.

----------------------------------------------------

Luke groaned.

His head throbbed painfully, as if an army of dwarves -- or just seven of them -- mined cheerfully with their pickaxes and hammers. No, these were modern dwarves. They were using jackhammers. "I am never drinking again," he moaned, rolling over the edge onto the floor. Except here was a curious thing: he already lay on the ground, rocks and pebbles poking him uncomfortably. Even when he opened his eyes, he was assailed by darkness all around.

Bits of memory floated to the surface of his consciousness. He'd walked through a doorway that led to another world. He had come here searching for something, or _someone_, someone important. A monster with red fur chasing him through the Labyrinth. A door closing, and then he'd been falling....

Falling....

That's right. No wonder his head hurt, he'd fallen down a hole and landed in this... dark hole. Whatever it was. If only he could see where he was. The only light came from a small trap door in the ceiling, and even that was paltry and dim. A trap door....

"Damn that stinking rat Jareth," he muttered. Clearly he'd fallen into a trap, designed to entrap its prey until the thirteen hour time limit was over. Thirteen hours... how long had he been out? He had to find a way out of the hole. If only he could see in this damnable darkness!

"I need a smoke..." he muttered again as he sat up, feeling his pockets for the box and lighter. His lighter. He patted himself with renew fervor. If he could just _see_ in this damned darkness, maybe he could find a way out. Hopefully there was still enough time left. He found something else instead. Hesitantly, he pulled it out of his pocket.

It was a crystal, the one that Jareth had given him that first afternoon in the theatre. It gleamed with unworldly light in the darkness, illuminating the cavernous walls. But Luke didn't pay attention to that. Instead, he stared, transfixed, at the image within the depths of the sphere. Jareth's words rang in the silence.

_But if you turn it this way, it will show you your dreams._

It had seemed such a wonderful gift at the time, the ability to look and know his own dreams. It had shown him something, it was true, images that paralleled the dreams that had haunted his sleep. Dreams in which he was the hero, riding the white steed to rescue the enchanted princess from her ivory tower. Dreams that began with Sarah. Dreams of Sarah. Yet he never reached her. He wandered endless halls, never finding the right room. The diva vanished in the final act before the eyes of the entire audience. He watched her dance with a handsome prince, yet never held her in his arms.

What were his dreams then?

A image swam to the surface of the crystal. It was Sarah, and his fingers tightened on the bauble. She sat upon a large four-poster bed, clad only in a thin white shift. As he watched, she slipped the thin straps off her shoulders. His blood began to race. He felt like a voyeur, watching something forbidden and therefore seductive beyond words. The Sarah in the crystal continued to strip, shrugging out of the shift until her body lay bare to his vision. She was pink and soft and inviting, laying back upon the red silk sheets of the bed, her long black hair fanning out around her face, like paintings of greek maidens who'd fallen to the wiles of Zeus.

Someone struck a light, and the image vanished. He nearly groaned in disappointment, before the realization that the room was brighter hit him. He was no longer alone.

"Who are you?" he asked the dwarf carrying a lamp.

"I'm doin' ya a favor, that's what," the dwaft snapped, setting the lamp down on a large rock. The lamp illuminated several skeletons lying in the dark corners and niches of the room, the relics of past challengers who never made it to the center. Luke looked away from them. "'Nother challenger falling int' the oubliette. It's thanks ter Ludo tha' I'm even savin' ya at all. Name's Hoggle."

"I'm Luke," Luke replied. "Can you lead me to the castle?"

"Ain't gonna do it fer nothing," Hoggle replied brusquely and warily. "Ain't gonna mess wi' Jareth fer no reason."

"Do you know him too?"

Hoggle snorted. "Have I ever smelled the Bog of Eternal Stench?" he replied mockingly. "Know Jareth? The king of all this here Labyrinth? I'd be lucky if I never heard of him. I ain't going nearer him than I hafta. You shouldn't either. If yer smart, you'd get out of the Labyrinth."

"Please!" Luke begged. "I have to go, I have to rescue someone."

Hoggle crossed his arms. "Everyone who comes ter the Labyrinth comes for the same reason," he replied unsympathetically. "So who's it? A brother? A sister? Yer child?"

Luke shook his head. "No. A girl, Sarah."

The dwarf went still, absolutely still. "Sarah?" he repeated after he recovered his voice.

"Yes. Long black hair, green eyes, and a face like a dream," Luke replied.

"Well, ye ain't gonna go anywhere if ye stay in here!" Hoggle declared, picking up the lamp again. It illuminated a door in the wall. It had no doorknobs. Fishing in his pocket, he pulled out a doorknob and inserted it into the right hand side of the door. Twisting the doorknob, he pulled the door open. Light flooded in from the outside. "C'mon then!"


	13. Old Northern Tales

Disclaimer:

Standard disclaimers apply.

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson and its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

----------------------------------------------------

**As the World Falls Down**

**Chapter 12**

**Old Northern Tales**

He rifled through the bookshelf, rejecting titles here and there until he came to a collection of stories. This one he pulled off the shelf, flipping through its pages with a thoughtful air. Quite frequently, he snorted. Every once in a long while, his lips would spread in a smile at something he'd read.

"Hans Christian Andersen?" she asked in amusement.

She lay curled up on the couch, her dark hair fanning her face as she watched him ransack her bookshelf. He smiled to see her so displayed before him. He carried the book over to her, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch so that she could also see. The book was opened to "The Goblin and the Huckster."¹

"'But how light the room was! From the book shot forth a ray of light which grew broad and full, like the stem of a tree, from which bright rays spread upward and over the student's head. Each leaf was fresh, and each flower was like a beautiful female head; some with dark and sparkling eyes, and others with eyes that were wonderfully blue and clear. The fruit gleamed like stars, and the room was filled with the sounds of beautiful music. The little goblin had never imagined, much less seen or heard of, any sight so glorious as this,'" he read softly. He turned and touched her cheek with a gloved finger. "But he has forgotten to mention green eyes."

"Hans Christian Andersen only writes about blue or black eyes," she replied flippantly. "I wonder what sort of poems were in the book. Shakespeare's sonnets?"

He snorted again. "No goblin would ever have the intelligence to appreciate poetry, regardless of the author," he said. He turned the page. "Now here is a pretty story of a sculptor who makes a statue in the image of the woman he loves, who spurns him.² Shall I read it aloud?"

"No!" She shuddered. "It is depressing, like a story of Pygmalion and Galatea gone wrong. It seems nice enough, until the girl tells him to go away. Then he just goes crazy, and things get weirder and weirder. Read the one about the korrigans, 'The Eflin Hill.' I think that one's a much prettier story."³

Laughing at her choice, he obeyed. "As you wish."

Her lips quirked.

He snorted through the story, punctuating it with observations such as, "there is only one elfin king, and he certainly does not live under a hill!" and "even if he has daughters, he'd never let a goblin marry one of them!" and "no goblin, no matter how old, would ever be as well spoken as this one," until Sarah slapped him lightly on the shoulder. Afterwards, he kept his comments to himself. When he finished reading that story, he handed the book to her. "It's your turn," he said with a sly smile, tilting his head up and back to look at her through his eyelashes.

She took the book from him, sitting up so that she could lean against the armrest. She brushed her hair out of her green eyes. "What do you want me to read?" she asked.

"Surprise me."

Peaking over the book at him -- his head tilted against the couch, blond hair brushing against her legs -- she considered what story to read. Flipping through the book, she found it, the last story of the collection. She began, "A mother sat by her little child; she was very sad, for she feared it would die."⁴

She did not see him stiffen where he sat, the line of his neck and shoulders tensing even as he remained perfectly still.

"It was quite pale, and its little eyes were closed, and sometimes it drew a heavy deep breath, almost like a sigh; and then the mother gazed more sadly than ever on the poor little creature. Some one knocked at the door, and a poor old man walked in. He was wrapped in something that looked like a great horse-cloth; and he required it truly to keep him warm, for it was cold winter; the country everywhere lay covered with snow and ice, and the wind blew so sharply that it cut one's face. The little child had dozed off to sleep for a moment, and the mother, seeing that the old man shivered with the cold, rose and placed a small mug of beer on the stove to warm for him. The old man sat and rocked the cradle; and the mother seated herself on a chair near him, and looked at her sick child who still breathed heavily, and took hold of its little hand.

"'You think I shall keep him, do you not?' she said. 'Our all-merciful God will surely not take him away from me.'

"The old man, who was indeed Death himself, nodded his head in a peculiar manner, which might have signified either Yes, or No; and the mother cast down her eyes, while the tears rolled down her cheeks."

"No, don't read that one," he said suddenly, turning around so that he knelt by the couch. He placed one hand on the book, obscuring the text. "It is too sad, even sadder than the story of 'The Psyche.' She goes through all that for nothing. The child still dies. It's not even true. No one, not even a mother, would go through all that. She would have given up long before she reached Death's house."

Something in his voice made her look at him. His face was white, as white as death. Even his lips were bloodless. And his eyes.... Sarah was frightened of him in that moment. His eyes were dark and drawn with something she could not understand, something she thought was distaste or displeasure. No, it was neither. It was something closer to hurt. A long buried pain newly awakened. He tried to smile, but failed. Laying the book aside, she grasped the hand that rested on the page. The glove was a barrier.

"Jareth."

Jareth pulled his hand away, gently. "If you want something with a tragic ending, perhaps 'The Little Mermaid' would be a better choice," he said, his voice carefully light.⁵ He picked the book back up, flipping it to the appropriate page. "An immortal creature falls in love with a mortal prince and gives up her most precious treasure to win his love_. _Far out in the ocean, where the water is as blue as the prettiest cornflower --"

Her hand upon his arm stopped him. "Get up," she commanded, tugging him onto the sofa.

He let her. "As you wish," he replied lips quirking as he unfolded himself from the ground, settling into the indicated seat. Once there, she sat down next to her, setting her head upon his shoulder. So close, he could smell the perfume that lingered in the dark strands of her hair, a mixture of lilies and roses and anise, innocent and beguiling. Her bare feet lay curled up upon the sofa, seeking the warm and shelter of a cushion.

"Now you may continue," she commanded regally and magnanimously.

"As you wish," he repeated solemnly, though his eyes danced. She could feel his voice rumbling in his chest, a calm and soothing vibration.

"Far out in the ocean, where the water is as blue as the prettiest cornflower,and as clear as crystal, it is very, very deep; so deep, indeed, that no cable could fathom it: many church steeples, piled one upon another, would not reach from the ground beneath to the surface of the water above. There dwell the Sea King and his subjects...."

She fell asleep to the murmur of his deep velvety voice, her heart cradled against his chest as he read aloud from her book for fairy tales. When she woke up, he was gone, and the sun was a glimmer on the grey horizon.

----------------------------------------------------

Toby screwed his face in concentration, following the instructions that Sarah had written down for him. He didn't want to call his dad. He clicked on the File menu, scrolling down until he found the correct option. He clicked on it. Behind him, he could hear the printer roar into life. Yes!

Except when he picked up the printout, it wasn't what he wanted at all. He'd been printing out a picture of goblins for his English class. The image was still on his computer screen, a crowd of goblins frolicking on a hill, little grotesque brown creatures with pointy ears and grubby clothes. But the paper he held was filled with a large portrait of a man's face. He was handsome, in a cold ethereal and cruel manner, all bony defined features and icy pale skin, surrounded by a cloud of pale golden hair. But Toby found himself drawn to the eyes, eyes so similar to his own -- pale blue eyes, like chips of ice. Except one of the pupils was larger, giving the impression of a black eye surrounded by a ring of blue fire.

The printer began to print again, copies of the same handsome cruel face.⁶

----------------------------------------------------

1 The Goblin and the Huckster

2 The Psyche

3 The Elfin Hill -- the elf king throws a party under the hill, inviting the old goblin from Norway and his two sons, who are looking for wives among the king's seven daughters. In the end, the old goblin marries the seventh daughter, who can tell a story for everything.

4 The Story of a Mother

5 If anyone has read the original story The Little Mermaid by Hans Christian Andersen, it's very different from the Disney version.

6 Another image inspired by the same source as Sarah's portrait in Chapter 8. First person to guess what it is gets a small scene (or potentially a new vignette/one-shot) written in their honor and to their specs.

**Author's Note:** Haven't uploaded in over a week, so here's 3 chapters in one go!

All referenced fairy tales can be found here: ./


	14. The Castle Beyond the Goblin City

Disclaimer:

Standard disclaimers apply.

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson and its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

BTW, two people already guessed the source for the printer scene and the painting scene. No, the painting scene was not inspired by _Dorian Gray_, although I won't deny it lent some elements. Both scenes were inspired by the official Bowie music video for "As the World Falls Down," the namesake of this whole fic! As **w-l-k** refused the "prize," **camcalli**is allowed to state any particular scenario she'd really like to see, whether in this fic or a new one.

----------------------------------------------------

**As the World Falls Down**

**Chapter 13**

**The Castle Beyond the Goblin City**

She knelt by the bed, her hands clutched together in desperation as her lips moved in wordless prayer.

"I don't think praying will change anything," a deep voice said suddenly, cutting in to her litany. She paused, raising her eyes in anxiety and hope. "In fact, you and I know very well it will change nothing."

The Goblin King sat on the edge of the bed next to her, looking suavely cool and collected. She wanted to slap him. Grimly, she rose to her feet, dusting her knees and smoothing her skirt. He watched her through half-lidded eyes, leaning back on the bed. His shirt was emerald green, profusions of lace and ruffles at the collar and cuffs, tucked inside a copper waistcoat. Over all this, he wore a golden frock coat, overrun with brocade and gems. His breeches were fawn colored, and his boots a rich deep brown. He smiled invitingly at her. "What wish shall I grant for you this time?" he asked.

Linda glared at him. "Where's my daughter?"

He waved a hand flippantly. "Oh, in my castle Underground," he replied. "Don't worry, she won't be harmed. Whatever stories you've heard, she is safe from any life of servitude. She shall be treated as a queen."

"Give her back."

He blinked, his smile widening into a grin. It was not a nice expression. "You know I can't do that."

Linda crossed her arms.

He rose from the bed, his movement as fluid as a cat. Linda couldn't help recoiling, taking a step back from him. Coldness radiated off his body. She could feel the strange dark power, rolling off him in waves that licked the air like tendrils of invisible fire. He could hurt her if he wanted.

"We made an agreement, Linda," he said quietly, his smile fading. "You made a wish, and I fulfilled it. Yet you tried to take it back. Words can't be taken back, but I was generous. I gave you another ten years, and I granted you your dreams in return for such a gift as your daughter. The ten years are over. Your daughter is mine now."

"You have no heart!" she cried.

He cocked his head to the side in amusement. "No, I don't," he agreed. "You and your daughter are just the same! Always so ungrateful for the things I do for you."

"I don't want your _generosity_!" Forgetting herself, forgetting his identity, she rushed forward in fury. But he grabbed her wrists before she could hit him, holding her away. She sobbed in his grasp. "Give me back my Sarah! Give me back my daughter! You have no right, she doesn't belong to you."

"Oh, but she does," he replied quietly. "You gave me the right when you wished her away ten years ago. You gave her to me when you wished that she be taken by me. Dearest Linda, you have given me the most precious gift in the whole world, and be assured that I appreciate it fully. Perhaps more fully than you do."

She struggled against him, tears streaming down her face. "She's not yours!"

His agreement caught her by surprise. "No, she's not," he said. "But I am hers."

----------------------------------------------------

A second door within the room led to a bathroom, tiled with gold veined marble. The bath tub was a circle in the floor; with steps on one side leading down. It was already filled, the steam rising faintly from the water. Deep red towels lay on the side, folded neatly next to a deep red silk robe. A large mirror, framed with solid gold, stood against the far wall, reaching from the ceiling to the floor. She saw her own dirty bedraggled reflection, a young woman with dirty hair and shadows under her eyes. She did not look like she belonged in this opulent bathroom.

Grimly, she stripped off her dreary Aboveground clothes, leaving them in a heap. The hot water was comfortingly hot to the point of scalding, and she settled into the tub with a sigh. Wetting her hair, she scratched her scalp and wondered if goblins ever used shampoo. Probably not. But Jareth's hair always looked so clean and soft....

_I will not think about his hair_, she told herself resolutely, sinking down in the water until it covered her burning cheeks.

Something clinked against the porcelain edge of the tub. It was a crystal bottle, three of them, each labeled with etched writing upon the faceted body. She picked up the closest one, opening it. The scent of flowers filled the steamy air. The writing said _shampoo._ "Thanks?" she said to the silence, which hummed and seemed to be listening. "Although it's rather... disturbing, considering that I am in the bath right now. I will assume that it's magic and not you being a creep."

The humming took on a smug tone.

After her bath, she dressed in the silk robe, drawing the sash tight around her waist. The silk robe fell to the floor, covering her body modestly yet clinging to her curves suggestively. In the mirror, she looked like an exotic figure, her eyes large and haunted in a pale face. She turned away from her reflection.

Someone had set a covered tray of food out for her. The contents were still warm, yet she had not heard anyone enter the room. However, the memory of her last encounter with Underground food was strong, and she recovered the tray with an emphatic _clang_ of metal.

Jareth had said thirteen hours. Yet she knew that time was relative, and even more so Underground, where it was subject to the whims of the petulant ruler. He had more than promised that thirteen hours would be thirteen days for her. Thirteen days, alone in this castle with him.

The prospect sent shivers down her spine.

She threw herself onto the bed, as if she were a spoiled bratty fifteen year old girl again, disgruntled with another night of baby-sitting. The sheets were soft, and she burrowed under them. They smelled of roses and the wind, heady and mysterious. She clutched the sheets to her face, smelling them, and the tears began to come unbidden to her eyes. What if Luke never made it to the castle? Would she be trapped here forever? The tears became a flood, blossoming into dark splashes against the delicate pink damask of the pillowcase.

Falling asleep, she dreamt. She dreamt that she was cradled in protective arms, his hand smoothing down her hair as he murmured reassuringly to her. She clutched his silk shirt in a fist. "Please don't cry," he said softly. "I will do anything you ask, please don't cry. I can't bear it if you cry."

His words calmed her, and her grip loosened upon his shirt. She fell into dreamless sleep.

----------------------------------------------------

The dwarf led Luke through twisting tunnels lined with strange disjointed hands that reached out of the wall. Hoggle seemed unimpressed by them, pushing past with the lamp. Luke followed more hesitantly, shying from strange faces that appeared randomly out of the corner of his eyes, faces shaped out of numerous hands. Yet when he turned to look at them properly, he saw hands that stuck out of the walls, like the last grope of a prisoner reaching for freedom from within the stone confines. He shuddered.

Hoggle seemed immersed in his own thoughts. He didn't speak to Luke, merely grunting when the young man attempted to ask a question and gestured for him to hurry up. His wrinkled face was dark with thoughts he didn't bother to share with the young man. Every once in a while, he rubbed his right wrist with his free hand.

"What's yer relationship with Sarah?" the dwarf asked suddenly.

They rounded a corner, leaving behind the eerie hands. Here, the tunnels walls were covered with creepers, the roots of rose bushes that grew above the ground, like sleeping rose brushes that grew upside down. "Sarah's the leading lady in the play I'm directing," he answered. "It's a new dramatization of _Beauty and the Beast._ I saw Sarah in another play, and she struck me as my vision of a fairy tale princess, and I knew in that moment that no one else would play a better Beauty than she could."

The tunnel became a flight of stairs leading downwards.

"Is that all?" Hoggle asked, leading them down the stairs. "The only reason yer saving her is fer yer play?"

"No," Luke replied. "Because I also fell in love with her."

They could hear the sound of rushing water. The light began to grow brighter, and Hoggle put out the lamp that he held. Luke could also smell clean fresh air. Suddenly, they stepped out into a vast courtyard amidst broken pillars and ruined walls. The sky was an expanse of blue above them. Luke whirled around in shock. The staircase they'd descended was visible through an old derelict arch, rising upwards into nothing.

"That's impossible," he declared.

"That's cuz you take things for granted," Hoggle retorted gruffly. "Ain't nothing impossible down here."

Arguments of laws of physics and logic died on Luke's lips, and he shrugged. "So where do we go from here?" he asked instead.

"I ain't going wit' you no further," Hoggle replied, shaking his head. "You gotta go on yerself from here. I ain't riskin' Jareth or the Bog."

"But aren't you going to help me?" Luke cried.

"I already helped ye out of the oubliette and got ye this far," the dwarf replied emphatically, crossing his arms in a gesture that was final. "Ye can call me a coward, but I'm just bein' practical. I ain't owe ye nothing' besides."

Luke fished out the crystal from his pocket and held it out. "What if I gave you this?" he asked desperately. "As a payment. Please, I can't make it on my own."

Hoggle jumped back as if Luke had presented him with a live snake. "Get that away from me!" he cried, throwing up his arms before his face. He fell backwards onto the ground. "What are you doing with that, you foolish boy! Throw it away, throw it away! It belongs to him, don't you see? What kind of a fool are ye?"

Luke closed his fist back around the crystal in confusion. "What's wrong with the crystal?" he asked.

Rushing forward suddenly, the dwarf knocked the crystal out of the young man's hand. It fell onto the ground, where Luke expect it to smash into fragments. It didn't. Instead, it rolled away from him, choosing random paths and turns until it vanished into a hole. "What did you do that for?" Luke demanded angrily, before the full import of Hoggle's words caught up with him. "Wait, you said it belongs to _him_. I got that crystal from... Do you mean that Jareth --"

"Yes," Hoggle replied tersely.

"Then what am I supposed to do?" Luke asked, sinking down onto the floor. He ran a hand through his brown hair, leaving it in messy spikes in his wake. "I have to make it to the castle in thirteen hours, and I don't know how many hours I have left. I don't know the way to the castle, and I have to save Sarah!"

"Jareth won't do nothing to harm her," the dwarf said gruffly and enigmatically. "I can point ye in the direction, but ye gotta go by yerself, ye hear? The castle is that-a way. You got to hurry though."

----------------------------------------------------

Morning never came. When Sarah opened her eyes again, the sky outside the window was an expanse of black velvet studded with faraway pearls. Had she only slept a few hours? Yet she felt sure it should be morning. She smelled the scent of roses, and for a second, thought she was back in her own room in her apartment Aboveground. Then the memories came flooding back, and she buried her face back into the pillow. But the tears were long since dry.

Someone had tucked her in, she realized suddenly. She still wore the red silk robe, but someone had wrapped the rose patterned covers around her to shield her from the cold, tucking the edge under her chin.

Candles burst into life as she set her bare feet onto the rug by the bed. The fire roared merrily, and the clanging of silver brought her attention to the little ormolu table. A vase of white roses sat in the center, nodding over a tray of still steaming food. "I'm not touching that," she announced to no one in particular.

The silence seemed to sulk. Sarah ignored the uneasy feeling that she had hurts its feelings and went into the grand bathroom again. A basin and an ewer filled with rose scented water sat upon a little wooden stand decorated with fancy scrollwork, next to folded ivory colored towels. She was amused to see a little china cup also on the washstand, glazed with blue flowers on its surface, containing a thoroughly modern toothbrush and roll of toothpaste.

_At least he has the decency to respect Aboveground hygiene,_ she thought as she brushed her teeth. She tried to ignore the nagging suspicion that the toothpaste tasted vaguely like peaches. _You never read about toiletry in fairy tales or even novels. There's even a really nice toilet over there, all gold and white marble like the rest of the room, and what's more, toilet paper. Let's not even think about what I'd have been forced to do if he didn't at least give me modern plumbing and all that._

When she came out of the bathroom, a gown was laid out for her on the bed. The muslin was as blue as the summer sky, trimmed with golden ribbons and sleeves of cascading golden gauze. Slippers of gold, sewn with little gems that winked red and golden in the firelight, lay beside the gown.

"Don't you have any _normal_ clothes?" Sarah asked, hands on her hips. The skirt of the gown stirred, as if lifted by a breeze or an unseen hand, almost apologetically, as though it were apologizing for being so glamourous. So shedding the red silk robe, she donned the gown of summer blue and the slippers bright as sunlight.

Outside her room, the goblin castle still lay in silence and darkness. Again, candles flickered into flame at her approach, falling asleep again once she'd passed. Presently, she came to an ornate set of double doors, inlaid with beaten gold upon its polished oak surface. It opened at her touch, both doors swinging open to reveal the grandest library she'd ever seen. The sneaky suspicion that someone (with criminally tight pants and big hair) had been watching too much Disney was swept away in a dizzying torrent of awe at the sight of the book covered walls, reaching up as high as three stories*. Balconies lined the shelves at each level, accessible by spiral staircases. Sarah took an involuntary step into the room.

"Do you like it?" Jareth asked, appearing beside her. "It is the work of several lifetimes, and some of the books are various editions of the same story, to be sure."

"I'd never expect to find such a library in a goblin castle," Sarah replied truthfully, never taking her eyes off the spectacular display of literary hoarding. "Did _you_ collect all these?"

"You think me illiterate?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as he watched her prowl around the shelves. The blue gown hang off her shoulders, revealing the white curves of her shoulders and collarbones. He smiled toothily, but she did not see -- her attention was completely focuses on the books.

Sarah lifted a book from the shelf, blowing dust off its cover. "Oh, no," she replied absent-mindedly, studying the gilt title before replacing it. "I suppose I didn't give much thought to it at all. Or maybe I just assumed that stealing babies and terrorizing innocent people didn't give you very much time to read."

"You forgot to mention seducing young maidens," he said, his breath tickling her neck. She nearly dropped the book.

Like last night (or was it earlier tonight?), his breath sent shivers down her spine, little currents of electricity that left her numb and weak. Her head came up sharply, and a gasp escaped her parted lips. She couldn't help but be _aware_ of him standing behind her, her skin tingling with the sense of his powerful aura, the dark sensuality of him, the sinister otherworldliness of him. It _thrilled_ her.

With great strength of will, Sarah turned around to face the Goblin King. He was close, so close that their clothing brushed against each other with the movement. The open ruffled lapels of his shirt, golden as sunlight, stirred in the breeze of her whirl, revealing tantalizing glimpses of the skin and his strange pendant underneath. He watched her with darkened hooded eyes, a lazy smile upon his pale lips. She forced herself to meet his eyes, forced herself not tremble or step away from him. "You have no power over me," she repeated firmly.

Several emotions flashed across his face -- anger, shame, amusement, pain, admiration, bitterness, annoyance. Amusement won, and he grinned, showing his teeth. "What a stubborn and precious creature you are!" he declared admiringly, stepping away from her. "Don't you want to be seduced?"

"Not. Particularly," she gritted out. The words fell like ice chips in the air between them.

He shook his head, feathery light hair brushing against his cheeks. "Such a pity," he lamented. "Let me show you something."

He led her up one of the spiral staircases onto the mezzanine level, where a small plain doorway nestled among the shelves of dusty tomes. Opening it, he ushered her into a dark room that burst into light at her entrance. Here, the books were bound in gold and jewels that glittered in the flickering candlelight. Just the bindings alone dazzled the girl -- what treasure lay hidden between them? "These are fairy tales," he informed her. "Every possible variation of every fairy tale is here. Even fairy tales that have been forgotten with the passage of time are kept safe here. Some of these were passed orally, until they were written down in these books. You will never find them Aboveground."

"Did you write them down?" she breathed, forgetting her distrust of him in her awe and attraction to the books.

"In a way, yes," he replied, watching her run her hands over the jeweled book spines. "Do you like them?"

"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't," she replied truthfully, selecting one at random from the shelf. The cover was inlaid with strips of sapphires and mother-of-pearl, and the title was spelled with clustered topazes. _East of the Moon, West of the Sun. _"I've never seen such beautiful books before in my life. Are these your favorite books?"

He didn't answer right away. His own preference paled in comparison to the way she held his treasure so reverently between her white hands, the golden gauze falling away from her arms in golden waterfalls. "You are more beautiful than any treasure I've ever collected," he said instead.

"Don't you ever give it a rest?" Sarah demanded, shutting the book with a loud _thud_. "All this seduction crap, this villain act, everything, it's... it's cliché, _hammy_. Can't you be sincere?"

"I am always sincere."

There was no mockery in his expression, his eyes burnings into hers as he watched her, waited for her reaction. The book became a shield between them, clutched to her chest protectively. Her green eyes met his fearlessly, deep as the forest leaves in summer and dappled with golden flecks. She was all blue and gold, like a nymph of summer incarnate. He brushed a stray tendril of hair out of her face, gloved fingertips lingering along her hairline.

"I cannot help what I am," he said, "but believe me, I am always sincere."

A curious silence hung between them, magnifying his simple words. _And what are you?_ Sarah wanted to ask. Yet she could not find the right words, and so the question lay between them, unasked, unspoken, until the words fell away and faded into little more than sighs. He dropped his hand, the frothy lace of his cuff falling over and hiding the hand from view.

"These fairy tales and all the other books in my library are at your disposal," he said, finally looking away as he turned from her.

"May I take this book with me?" she asked suddenly. He turned back to face her, one wickedly curving eyebrow raised. She still held the gold and blue book, the sapphire strips casting blue rays upon her skin.

He replied with the same answer he'd given all her demands. "As you wish."

He walked with her back to her room, a silent escort whose powerful presence made up for his taciturnity. Sarah couldn't help but sneak peaks of him from under her eyelashes. He stared ahead as he walked, his chin lifted proudly, his figure tall and straight and regal. He was as golden as sunlight, his blond hair a pale cloud around his face, his shirt golden and girt with a bronze colored waistcoat. His breeches were honey-colored, tucked inside highly polished brown boots embellished with golden buttons and buckles. He looked like a sun king displaced into the darkness, crowned with light and illuminating the night.

Lunch was laid out for her in her room when she returned, each dish mouth-wateringly tantalizingly in appearance and fragrance. Sarah backed away from the display. "I'm not hungry," she declared. The rumbling of her stomach refuted the claim. _Shit._

His eyes flashed dangerously. "Do you intend to starve yourself?" he asked conversationally.

Sarah' tossed her hair, retorting, "I haven't forgotten what happened the last time I ate food Underground."

Jareth shrugged nonchalantly. "The last time you were here, we stood at opposite sides of the issue," he told her. "It was my intention then to delay your journey as long as possible. What purpose would drugging you serve me this time? Besides, I have promised you that I would not harm you, and even if you choose not to believe me, I will abide by my word."

"Prove it," she dared, her green eyes narrowing.

"What would you have me do?"

Picking up a random fruit from the bowl, Sarah held it out to him. It was a pear, its skin as golden as spring. He gazed momentarily at the fruit, then at the woman who held it out to him. She challenged him with her eyes, to eat the pear and prove his _sincerity._ He could hear the sarcasm of her unspoken words. Raising it to his lips, Jareth bit into the warm juicy golden flesh.

"Do you want a taste?" he asked a moment later, proffering the bitten fruit to her, a little globe of sunshine, a little burning sun in his hand.

"No," Sarah replied cheekily. "That one's yours. I'm not eating anything you've touched."

"Will you eat now?" he asked instead, determinedly ignoring her jibe. He still held the peach out to her."Or must I feed you?" He smiled, to let her know how much he would enjoy her defiance.

"_I'll eat_," Sarah blurted out as she took a hasty step back, before checking herself. She repeated, more calmly, "I'll eat. You don't have to feed me."

Jareth snorted, setting down the fruit onto the pristine tablecloth by the silver dish. Turning back to face her, he bowed a low and courtly bow to her, his blond hair falling forward over his shoulders like little streams of sunlight. That action, above anything else -- more than his displays of wealth and demonstrations of power -- reminded her that he was king of this domain.

Then he vanished in a burst of flame that left a cloud of glitter in the air, reflecting the firelight like a supernovae that vanished into nothing.

----------------------------------------------------

* Other than the 1991 Disney version of _Beauty and the Beast, _Robin McKinley's version of the fairy tale (_Beauty: a Retelling_, which incidentally is one of my absolute favorite versions of the story) also depicts Beauty/Belle as a lover of books and involves a spectacular library in the Beast's castle. One can only imagine a connection between the two.... :3

Another version worth reading is Robin McKinley's second novelization _Rose Daughter_, which as the title suggest, places greater emphasis on the role of roses in the story. Why did the Beast react so strongly to the theft of a rose from a garden full of roses? Why did Beauty ask for a rose in the first place?

PS. There are spoilers at my livejournal site, shhhhhhhh


	15. Interlude: Sarah's Song

Disclaimer:

Standard disclaimers apply.

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson and its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

"Sarah's Song" is performed by Sissel and featured on her album _My Heart. _Lyrics and composition credited to Jørn Dahl and David Forman.

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**As the World Falls Down**

**Interlude**

**Sarah's Song**

Mama how do I begin

To explain this situation we're in

Angels heard the beautiful words

That you prayed

And showed me the way - to you

And they knew you were in love

So they sent me down from heaven above

Angels cried and kissed me goodbye

I was long gone - This is my song to you

Oh, my song could never be

As sweet as the song you sing to me

Oh, my love could never be

As deep as the love you give - to me

When your fingers touch my skin

And you kiss my lips and tickle my chin

I breathe you in, oh Mama I'm where I belong

This is my song - to you

Oh, my song could never be

As sweet as the song you sing to me

Oh, my love could never be

As deep as the love you give - to me

Oh, one day I will be grown

And I know I'll havea child on my own

Remember me this way, cause some day

I'll be long gone - singing my song to you

Oh, my song could never be

As sweet as the song you sing to me

Oh, my love could never be

As deep as the love you give - to me

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**Author's Note:** Chapter 14 is giving me some difficulties, so I decided to give you this other piece of the puzzle that I'm currently weaving. I heard this song before I watched _Labyrinth_, and it just seemed to fit with the story I'm writing. Hopefully, this will shed some light on the dark thoughts I'm thinking.


	16. The Barest Touch

Disclaimer:

Standard disclaimers apply.

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson and its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

**Author's Notes:**

I want to thank everyone who's reviewed. Though I may not have mentioned it before, everyone's comments have been more than helpful in the course of writing this story. Writing serially is quite a challenge, and the urge is to go back and edit all the pre-existing chapters. Your comments help me steer the story into the emerging course and also provide valuable insight into everyone's idea of Jareth, Sarah, and their relationship to one another. It also lets me know what's everyone's "dish of tea."

Thank you especially to my constant reviewers. I've replied to several of your comments via the internal messaging system on FFdotnet. I appreciate the discussions on the parallelisms of _As the World Falls Down_ to various fairy tales, some of which have been mentioned in this work of fiction. I can tell you that any parallels you see are deliberate and intentional. I don't believe I'm clever enough to have written any that I don't intend, but sometimes serendipity intervenes. I would love it if this is one such occasion. Thank you to those who have been kind enough to point out grammatical mistakes, even though I'm sure there are hundreds more that have been undiscovered or simply ignored as insignificant.

**To Erin Crocodile** -- Apollo and Daphne did provide some inspiration for that snippet, but I was mostly influenced by "Ode on a Grecian Urn" by Keats and another English poem, which I will have to get back to you on. I have to consult my English Literature textbook from high school. God, I feel old.

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**As the World Falls Down**

**Chapter 14**

**The Barest Touch**

"Yet it is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top."  
Virginia Woolf

She'd fallen asleep on the window seat in the library, the length of her body stretched along the cushioned seat while her bare feet brushed against the carpeted floor. The precious book was open beside her, its pages stirring softly under her soft breathing. Her long black hair fanned out on the scarlet upholstery, streaming down the soft curve of her neck and over her back in rivulets of black silk.

He knelt on the floor next to her, watching in fascination -- the gentle rise and fall of her body in time to her breaths, the fluttering of her eyelashes against the downy curve of her cheekbone, the parting of her soft pink lips as she murmured wordlessly. She was soft in slumber, her defenses fading away as she retreated into the safety of oblivion. The stubborn set of the chin had vanished, the affected courage thrown away, and he could see now how vulnerable she truly was, even at age twenty-two. He could almost see the fifteen year-old girl within her, hidden away carefully and secretly during her waking hours. A creature of dreams, he haunted the subconscious minds of humans, fantastical worlds created from their imaginations. To watch her sleep was an alien experience.

It was addictive beyond all expectation.

He didn't know how long he knelt there in silent obeisance. He wondered if he should wake her, or if he should leave her before she woke up and caught him staring at her. But the softness of her sleeping face arrested him, and he did not want to leave. His eyes lowered to her soft, full mouth again, and he leaned close towards her. Maybe...just one...and she would never need to know.

The barest caress, and he drew back sharply as she stirred, her hand batting away an imaginary disturbance -- droplets of oil that never fell on her cheek. Even asleep, she managed to thwart him like the contrary creature she was. She blinked, finally focusing on his face so close to her own, and confusion flashed across her face momentarily. She rubbed her eyes, fingers lingering against her lips. "I fell asleep," she stated, sitting up.

"Yes," he agreed. His lips burned with disappointed yearning as he rose to his feet, distancing himself from her warm and pliant form.

"How long have I been asleep?" she asked, pushing back her thick black hair, as heavy as the night sky.

"A minute, an hour, a year," he replied enigmatically. "The passage of time is relative."

Sarah glared. "You know what I mean," she accused with the dignity of a queen, despite her lower stature, forcing her to look upwards to see his face. "In terms of human hours, relative to myself. How long have I been asleep? How long have I been in your castle?"

Jareth inclined his head. "In my castle? One day. I don't know how long you lay in slumber upon the window seat," he replied seriously.

She bit her lip. "It's always dark, I lose track of time," she admitted, turning to look at the darkened sky through the clear glass panes of the window. Her breath left . "It's always nighttime, and I start to forget how long I've been here, except I've only been here one day. Yet my senses try and tell me it has only been a few hours. It's very disorienting."

"I am sorry."

She blinked in surprise as she looked into his dark face, the confusion resurfacing before she quelled it ruthlessly. "Are you actually apologizing to me?" she demanded, eyebrows furrowing in consternation and reproach as his unexpected words.

"Should I not be?" he countered. Sarah couldn't decide if he was mocking her or being perfectly serious. The shadows on his face refused to lie still, flittering over his features and revealing only fragments -- the sharpness of sculpted cheekbones, a flash of blue eyes, the curve of thin closed lips. She chose to not to decide.

Instead she touched the open book beside her. "Is this one of your favorites?" she asked, pointing the various markings on the pages. Someone had circled random words, scribbled notes in the margins, and drawn arrows all over the paragraphs connecting ideas in pencil. The page corners were dog-eared from frequent turning. They were all the tell-tale signs of constant persusal.

He smiled then, picking up the book so that he could sit on the seat next to her. She breathed him in, a dark spicy mysterious scent that hinted of the roses he seemed to love, growing riotous over the walls of the castle and over the hedge mazes that surrounded the fortress. The candlelight gleamed golden and tawny on his dark lashes, his eyelids lowered as he contemplated the page before him. It was all too familiar. Except the book was not an anthology of fairy tales penned by a Danish story teller, and the room was not her small living room Aboveground. The man beside her was more than a man, he was the Goblin King.

"I was fascinated with these stories for a time, yes," he replied, flipping the page until he came to an intricate illustration of the heroine, pausing outside the grand doors of the castle. A familiar scenario. "So many stories feature young maidens, but the story thrusts itself upon them. The fairy godmother gives the dress to Cinderella, and the prince follows her home from the ball. Rapunzel was the victim of her parents' gluttony and the witch's selfishness. Even the princess whose father wanted to marry her, she ran away from the fate. She didn't choose to marry the king, he simply announced his intent to wed her. But in _East of the Sun, West of the Moon_, the girl chooses to save her father from the gruesome monster, and when her husband vanishes, she consciously throws herself into the adventure in order to save him."

"A little like me." The words came without thought, and she clamped her lips shut. But Jareth was nodding.

"Yes," he agreed, lifting his eyes to hers. "Very much like you. She loses her husband through her own folly, just as you wished away your brother carelessly. You both willingly faced the dangers and hardships, traveling to another world even, to retrieve your lost one. But I hope I am not as irredeemable as the false princess."

"I don't know," Sarah said, raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms. "You fed me a drugged peach."

The Goblin King laughed. "That I did," he admitted. "Your will was so strong that I was forced to resort to dirty tricks. But as I recall, you enjoyed it."

His eyes flashed wickedly, and Sarah felt herself begin to blush. She bit her lip as she ducked her head, hair falling forward to hide her flaming cheeks. It was true, she _had_ enjoyed the fantasy. Despite her disgust at her own behavior and the depravity of that masked court, the unwavering attention of the king had thrilled her. He had told her she was beautiful, and she had been flattered. Her first taste of adulthood, and he had shown her, however briefly, what it felt like to be a woman in the eyes of another man.

Suddenly, she realized that he was close, very close to her, heard the low rumbling of his breath. Her head flew up, noses nearly colliding. She drew back, only a little though, a reaction of surprise and not disgust. His eyes were dark with memory, enthralling hers with their intensity. A hesitant finger touched her bottom lip, tracing its plump curve through the fine kid leather. She imagined that his hand trembled.

"I enjoyed it too," he whispered huskily.

His touch reminded her something unfulfilled. She was flying in his arms, his voice low and soft in her ear as he leaned close to her. There was no one else in the world except for the two of them. He pressed his face close to hers, a request, an offering. She was aware of only his finger brushing her lip, the skin tingling in anticipation. She remembered the feeling of his lips upon her skin too, warm and soft and caressing against her palm.

"You owe me a kiss," he added, trailing his finger along her jawline.

Yes, that was it. He had meant to kiss her, and that gesture had frightened her.* It was an adult deed, completely beyond her fifteen years. If she'd kissed him, she would have left behind her childhood forever. But she was twenty-two now, no longer the same naive girl in a world of good versus evil. She had kissed men, on stage and off, and more. She was no longer fifteen years-old and a child. But he was still the Goblin King.

She drew back sharply, turning her face away from his touch. "I should go to bed," she said weakly, trying to rise. He hooked one booted foot around her ankle, anchoring her in place.

"Without dinner?" he asked silkily.

"It's alright, I'm rather tired," she lied.

Jareth shook his head, golden wisps brushing against his cheeks. "What if I promised not to touch you?" he asked. Resting his elbow on the same knee, he leaned his chin upon his fist. "You will sit in your chair, and I will remain mine. The table will be a barrier between us."

"What makes you think that will make any difference?" Sarah asked acidly, untangling her foot from his as she stood up and out of his reach. It felt a little better to be the one standing, glaring down at the him. Except the damned contrary creature refused to be intimidated.

"Because you don't like it when I touch you," he pointed out with brutal disarming bluntness. "And because I think you would enjoy my company, if you let yourself."

But what made Sarah pause was not the honesty in his voice, but the loneliness. The castle was empty, the castle was abandoned, overgrown with choking black thorns, an impassable fortress. The city outside was deserted. He was king of a forgotten realm. In that moment, she understood the feelings that swept over Persephone. He didn't need to offer her pomegranate seeds.

"Dinner," she acquiesced.

----------------------------------------------------

True to his word, he kept to his side of the table, sitting perpendicular to her. The chairs were as grand as thrones, and he had insisted she sit at the head of the table that stretched down the length of the echoing hall into the flickering shadows, cast by candles in gold and crystal sconces. The candlesticks on the table were covered with silver filigree, the details minute and intricate, and the goblets were cut from crystal so clear and brilliant that they winked with the brilliance of stars. The pale gold tablecloth was damasked with roses white and creamy, laden with plates of gilt porcelain.

Jareth ate nothing, content to watch Sarah as she sampled the various delicacies on the table. His fingers played with the stem of a glass of wine, its color a deep violet that became crimson when the light shone through it, a liquid jewel. It cast a dusting of burgundy shadows on the pale gold tablecloth, a wash of red on his pale gloves when he lifted the glass to his lips.

"Who cooks the food?" Sarah demanded suddenly, laying down her fork.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The food," Sarah repeated. "I haven't seen anyone except for us, and no offense, I fail to see you in the kitchen preparing it."

He grinned at her somewhat less than flattering accusation. Setting down his wineglass, he leaned back in his chair. Even though he sat less in status to her, he reclined with the grace of a king, reversing their roles. "You're right," he admitted. "I don't believe I even know where the kitchens are, and I wouldn't eat a dish made by goblins."

"Then who makes the food?" she pressed, picking up her own glass filled with clear water. She didn't dare drink wine Underground, distrusting its potential effects on her. Even the water was potent, and she felt like she was drinking a thundering waterfall. She gestured at the table -- creamy bisque, fresh salad, smoked salmon, and roasted chicken. Beyond that, a feast of desserts enough to tempt any young girl lay waiting.

"The castle," he replied succinctly. As predicted, a blank expression spread over her features. He smiled at her confusion. "The magic of the castle provides for its inhabitants. It sensed your hunger and responded accordingly."

Sarah smiled wryly. "Well, what if I just want to make myself a sandwich?" she asked, picking up her fork again.

His eyes crinkled as he replied, "Well, there are two possibilities. Either the castle's magic will produce the desired sandwich, or it'll conjure up a kitchen for you to make a sandwich yourself."

Her eyebrows furrowed. "You mean to say, there aren't any kitchens?" she asked, her fork pausing halfway to her mouth.

"The castle only produces what is needed," the Goblin King replied. "There has never been need of a kitchen before, not when the castle can simply create food. No one has ever wanted to cook. Unfortunately, you see that the magic has gone rather overboard. It has never had to feed anyone before."

Sarah chewed while she thought about what he said. "It's...impressive," she said at last, swallowing whatever she had eaten without remembering what it was. Then his words caught up with her. "Wait...it hasn't fed...don't you eat?"

He shook his head, reaching for his wineglass again. "I don't need to," he answered. "I indulge in wine every once in a while, but I drink it out of pleasure rather than any need for sustenance."

"But you can eat if you want to, right?" she pressed. "It wouldn't... disagree with you?"

"I have eaten before," he affirmed, the goblet dangling from his fingers. "Cookies and milk. Sweetmeats. Honey."

He caught her eye and smirked. "Peaches."

"Why do you do that?" she demanded, leaning forward so she could look at him squarely. He met her gaze, lips curled in vague amusement. She frowned at his nonchalance. "Why do you purposely say things to annoy me? Like this is all a game, and you're always trying to one up me."

He leaned forward too, resting one elbow on the table between them. "Has it ever occurred to you that I feel threatened by you?" he whispered in a low, almost confidential voice.

Her fingers tightened on her fork and knife. "Do you?" she said numbly, her tongue suddenly thick in her mouth.

"Extremely." And to her unexpected disappointment, he pulled away and leaned back in his seat. Keeping the table between them, looking back at her across the distance. He was distant again, the momentary honesty vanishing behind a cool exterior. "Life is a game, precious, with its winners and losers. Anyone who tells you different is either lying or wants to exploit you."

"But not everyone is an enemy," Sarah protested. "I don't want to be an enemy, I don't want to undermine you. I just want...."

The Goblin King raised an eyebrow. "A bosom companion? A friend?"

"An ally," she said firmly. The thought of befriending the king of goblins was disquieting. "I have only you for company. It would be nice if we didn't have to be so...guarded around each other. Can't we be on the same side?"

"It will be difficult," he said slowly. "I have always been the villain."

Sarah surprised them both by laying her hand on his arm. "There is no villain in this story."

Jareth stiffened under her touch. She seemed determined to frustrate him, after he'd promised not to touch her. Almost tenderly, he lifted her hand and set it back on the table, releasing her immediately from his impersonal hold. "Yes, there is," he told her gently, and standing up from the table, he left her to the silence of the dining hall.

----------------------------------------------------

She had been dreaming, fragments of colors and music that bled into one another with no rhyme or reason.

She was running through the park, chasing Toby as he shrieked in delight each time she nearly caught him. It was early dusk, the sky a dusty lavender that cast a patina of magical glitter upon the leaves and flowers and the surface of the pond. Finally, she managed to grab the boy, and they fell down into a laughing heap upon the grass, except she was tangled with Hoggle as they fell down a narrow stone chute choked with cobwebs, and the air had grown fetid and putrid.

Except she was floating as gently as a bubble through the air as the castle disintegrated around her, chunks of rubble that rose gracefully into the air. She was alone, except for a white barn owl perched upon a disembodied window ledge. It took to the air, a flurry of white feathers, and she threw up her arms against an attack that never came. Instead, she felt the gentle cold touch of a snowflake against her cheek. She opened her eyes. The white feathers fell around her, except they were snowflakes, and the world has become a vast canvas of white.

Someone tapped her shoulder. She turned, and Luke bowed to her, dressed elegantly as a nineteenth century German prince. Behind him, aristocrats and elegant creatures milled about in a beautiful ballroom, unmasked and perfectly polite. His hand was an unspoken question.

She was dancing, passed from the arms of one man to another as they whirled her over the golden marble floors, except when she looked down, there was no floor, she was dancing on air. The world swept by under her feet, hazy through the thin layers of clouds. She clutched her partner in terror and exhilaration as the waves of vertigo hit her.

"I won't let you fall," he said laughingly, and she looked up in panic. Jareth smiled at her, holding her closer to him. Reaching up with his left hand, he plucked a diamond from the velvety darkness around them and set it in her hair, when it glowed more brightly than it ever did in the sky. His smile died, and his fingers lingered in her hair.

"This is the closest to Heaven I'll ever be."

It began to rain, raindrops creating ripples in the pond upon which they stood. The man next to her became a splash of water that drenched her as it cascaded into the pond, droplets that brushed her face and her eyelids and her lips, except when she reached up to brush them away, they were drops of oil that smeared, and she opened her eyes to see Jareth kneeling before her in the library.

----------------------------------------------------

So the time passed in the everlasting night. In her waking hours, Sarah prowled through the library and immersed herself in the world of the fairy stories of her youth. _East of the Sun, West of the Moon_ gave way to Hans Christian Andersen's "The Snow Queen." Jareth would find her in the library, feet tucked under her as she mused over the jeweled books in a plush armchair, the candlelight picking out the hidden red fires in her dark hair, and watching her, he would wonder if she knew.

And always, he would sit by her as she ate, never touching any food himself and drinking only wine. He was an eloquent conversationalist when it suited him, his deep velvety voice an invisible caress as he illustrated the wonders of the Underground. And always, he kept his promise not to touch her.

----------------------------------------------------

* In the book version of _Labyrinth_, Sarah runs away because Jareth tries to kiss her.

**Further notes:**

Lots of allusions in this chapter, both subtle and very obvious, to various things, as well as a tiny tribute/callback to the movie. Somebody might recognize a line (with a changed pronoun) to a very famous rock song from the late 90s.

Not very happy with the chapter title, but nothing seems to fit. I'll take suggestions for alternative titles, if anyone has any, and maybe I'll change it when something better comes along.

**FURTHER NOTES:**

FFdotnet obviously doesnt like any URLS in my files when I upload new chapters. In "Old Northern Tales," all my links to the referenced stories were nulled. I had some links to a transcript of the Labyrinth novel, as well as an interesting wiki article describing the Byronic hero, which I found curiously similar to the fanon of Jareth. Since is being temperamental about this, you can find the links on the corresponding chapter entry on my livejournal site, which is linked on my profile.

Because the book for _Labyrinth_ is out of print, and second copies sell for at least $90 USD on Amazondotcom. I feel lucky that I bought mine for only $40 now....


	17. My Unworthiest Hand

Disclaimer:

Standard disclaimers apply.

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson and its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

Find the hidden song reference(s)!

**Author's Note:** As stated in revised version of the previous chapter, ffdotnet doesn't seem to like it when I post links in my files. They never show up. Since I continually reference events in the _Labyrinth _bookverse, I posted a link to a transcript of the novel online. The link refused to appear. So this is just a note for anyone who missed the revision redirecting you to where you can find a link, if you go to my livejournal account from my profile page, there is a link to the transcript on the corresponding entry for the same chapter. Thank you Walter D. Pullen for your fervent passion for _Labyrinth_ and your contribution to its fandom online, although you may not realize it!

Also, I'm completely wiped writing this chapter. Jareth, being Jareth, being perverse, is being something that I don't want him to be.

**S.** **R. Devaste**-- I can only say.... REORDERED TIME.

It's currently 4:30am as I'm posting this, because I was completely sidetracked by writing a long email to another one of my constant reviewers, **Camcalli_._** Thank you for being amazing and a fellow student of English Literature and lover of Robin McKinley, among other things. Please don't give me further excuses to rant on and on about Jareth though, because it's bad for my sleep schedule and my mental health.

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**As the World Falls Down**

**Chapter 15**

**My Unworthiest Hand**

Little Lotte thought, _Am I fonder of dolls, or of goblins, of shoes, or of riddles and frocks? or of chocolate?_

_The Phantom of the Opera, _Gaston Leroux

The castle loomed distantly above the crumbling walls, a distant and ominous destination shrouded in darkness and night. How much time did he have left? Luke felt like he'd been walking for a hundred years, the roses were blooming on the creeping branches, and this was the last chance to wake the sleeping princess in the ivory tower atop the glass mountain.

The closer he came towards the castle, the denser the briar thicket became. Wilted black branches that choked the walls with bloody thorns, they scratched him with talons as he clawed his way through their suffocating embrace. Droplets of blood -- his blood -- glistened on their victorious tendrils like rosebuds waiting to bloom. One wicked thorn traced his cheek, leaving a trail of red down its curve. He swatted it impatiently with the back of his hand, smearing the blood until it became a passionate lover's kiss.

He'd lost his jacket earlier in a scuffle with goblins. Despite Jareth's claim of sovereignty over the creatures, Luke had been skeptical over their existence. The little buggers had affirmed their it with a vengeance, leaping out at him from behind low walls and brandishing sticks, on which clung strange little wrinkled baby looking monsters with large sharp teeth. One of the monsters managed to bite him, and its deadly teeth had pierced the material of his sleeves and drawn blood. They'd torn off his jacket as they clawed at him, the fabric already stained with blood. He'd run away, leaving them scrambling over the blood soaked garment.

His sleeve was still red, and the skin had started to scab already. He touched it gingerly, wincing as the slight marks split open and began to bleed afresh. The little monster hadn't just bitten him, it had torn his flesh with its teeth.

"Dammit," he muttered, trying to staunch the flow with his other hand. "What kind of Labyrinth is this? Horrifying red monsters, holes in the ground with no exits, and little vicious creatures that bite!"

"The original Labyrinth was built to keep in the Minotaur," Jareth replied, falling into step beside the young man. He was dressed in a crimson shirt, ruffles and lack peeping out of the collar and cuffs of his black leather frock coat. A cape of crimson silk fell from his shoulders, a waterfall of silk that swirled around his leather boots and fawn-colored thighs. His elegant clothes only increased Luke's awareness of his own dirty clothes, the red silk a mockery of the blood stains on Luke's shirt. The Goblin King tutted over the sight of Luke's bloody arm. "Oh my. Did my subjects do that to you?"

"Yes," Luke gritted out, unrolling his sleeve to hide the scars. "Did you do the same things to Sarah when she came through here seven years ago?"

Jareth smiled. "Oh, no," he replied blithely. "Sarah required much more..._persuasive_ measures."

"So, how much time do I have left?" Luke asked after a moment of silence as they walked side by side. Jareth made no suggestions when they came to intersections, he merely followed the younger man.

"See for yourself," the king replied, pointing to a clock that appeared in midair beside them. The hands pointed to seven o'clock and three minutes. "You know, you're doing better than I expected. But then, I never expected very much to begin with."

Luke shot the Fae a dirty look. "Thanks, I guess," he muttered. "I was out for a long time in the oublithingy, wasn't I?"

Jareth's lips twitched. "The oubliette? Yes, you were."

"So, are you here to taunt me again? Chuck more crystal balls and sic another monster on me?" Luke asked, pausing to look down three possible choices at an intersection. He chose left.

"I don't think you appreciate my crystals," Jareth replied innocently, even as his lips curved in wicked smile. "But if you insist on a monster, perhaps I can arrange it."

"No, thanks. Seriously though, why are you here?"

"I'm the king of this domain," he reminded Luke flippantly. "All ways are open to me."

"Oh, sorry, _your majesty_," Luke retorted, sarcasm dripping in fat droplets from his words. Jareth's grin only widened, and the younger man resisted the urge to throw a punch into that convenient target. "I meant to ask, how kind of you to grace me with your presence, and may this humble servant ask why?"

"Well, since you asked me so nicely, I'll ignore your pertinent tone and answer your question," the Goblin King replied. "Because Sarah won't forgive me if I let anything happen to you."

"Well, you're too late!" Luke snapped. "Or does all this constitute as nothing to you?"

Jareth shrugged. "It is no more than the dangers Sarah faced at age fifteen," he replied, almost bitterly and sulkily, like a little boy who'd been denied a present for the first time in his life. Yet his words were underlined with an undercurrent of admiration, as if he admired her against his will. "You would have been very impressed with her -- taming monsters into docile lackeys, befriending even the most hostile creatures, and reducing my castle to mere rubble. She even charmed my gardener into smitten submission! She sustained no worse injuries than a nip to the hand by a rather snippy pixie. To consider a damsel in distress would be an insult to her."

"And yet you've placed her into a classic damsel in distress scenario," the director pointed out.

"I suggest you familiarize yourself better with stories before you make that accusation," Jareth replied lightly.

They came to a pair of doors, each decorated with a brass knocker in the shape of an ugly goblin face sporting a large brass ring. One face bit his ring in his mouth, whereas the other's ring passed through his ears. There were no doorknobs. "I think we're missing one," Luke remarked. "Except I suppose it would be difficult to pass a ring through eyes. So even though I can't hear or speak evil, I can still see it."

There was no answer. When Luke turned around, Jareth was gone.

----------------------------------------------------

On the seventh night, roughly, Jareth was waiting outside the library for her. He was dressed like a nineteenth century gentleman, a blue silk cravat wound round his neck and tucked into a charcoal grey vest that set off his icy complexion. As always, he was shod in knee high boots, pulled over dove grey breeches. Yet the buckles and embellishments on his boots and the frothy lace of his cuffs belied the 1800s fashion renunciation. His pale hair was brighter against the darkness of his cravat, as if the fairies had sprinkled moon dust among the golden strands and starlight in his blue eyes. "I thought you might like to see something different today," he said with a smile, blocking the library doors and ushering her past it.

"What is it?" Sarah asked, letting him guide her down the passage.

"You'll see," he said succinctly, teasing in his refusal to answer her. They came to an antechamber, a seven point star laid in black marble among the gold, each point leading to a doorway, and without stopping, he took her through and into a grand hall hung with portraits and paintings.

Sarah paused beside a portrait of a beautiful woman with silver hair and indigo eyes that stared down at her haughtily. "Who is she?" she asked in a hushed voice, cowed by the ethereal beauty of the subject.

"My mother." He stood behind her, eyes raised to the arrogant eyes of the painted woman. Sarah could not help stiffening at his nearness, but he made no move to be closer. She could feel him, close and unnaturally still, and she turned to look at him. The sight shocked her.

His face was cold, colder than she had even seen. It was not the usual expression of impassivity, aloof and unreadable. It was the coldness of the absolute lack of emotion, of someone who had stopped caring long ago, leaving behind the passionate heat of hatred. His blue eyes were chips of ice in his white face, his lips pale and pressed into a thin line. She had never seen such coldness in anyone.

She turned back to the portrait hastily, unnerved by his iciness. She studied the portrait with avidly, desperate to forget what she'd seen, and her affected interest soon became genuine curiosity. She could see the resemblance, not only in their pale icy complexion, but also in the sculpted cheekbones and proud jut of the chin. "She's beautiful," she said truthfully.

Jareth's lips curled. "Yes, she is," he conceded shortly. A curious silence filled the hall after his words, filled with so many unsaid things that Sarah couldn't hear, and he turned away. "But this isn't what I wanted to show you."

With one last curious glance at the portrait, she followed him down the hall.

----------------------------------------------------

"All young people are so rude nowadays!" the door knocker with its ring through his ears declared suddenly. "Always staring!"

The unexpected outburst took Luke by surprise, and he sprang back involuntarily. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said.

"HUH?!"

"I said I'm sorry," Luke repeated, approaching the talking door knocker. He was rewarded with only another "_Huh?_"

"Mmmm hmmm mmm!" the other door knocker suddenly declared, its mouth trying to move around the brass ring on his tongue. "Grfff nggg fff mff mffff!"

"Talk clearly, or don't talk at all!" the first door knocker admonished acidly. "Always mumbling. mumble jumble!"

"Mff uuu sss hmmmm!"

"Errr," Luke interrupted hesitantly. "I need to go to the castle."

The second door knocker tried to answer, even as the first one scrunched up his face in consternation. "Grfff nmph mf hmmmm!"

"Oh, God! One of you is deaf, and the other one can't talk!" Luke cried out in frustration, kicking the stone wall. "Ow! Dammit! Who thinks up these bloody things?"

"Every facet of the Labyrinth is a memory of the dreams of its past challengers," a new voice, deep and rumbling, answered. An old man tottered into view, dressed in tattered robes. A curious hat, topped with a strange bird, perched on his head. "Young man, this is the world where dreams come true."

"So why am I not married to a beautiful actress and winning a Tony?" Luke asked wryly.

"Yeah, and I wouldn't be his hat!" the bird suddenly chirped, and the director's mouth fell open. The bird cocked his head, staring at him with one eye.

"Be quiet!" the old man commanded the bird, before turning his eyes back to the young man. "Young man, you misunderstand. Not your aspirations and desires, but your _dreams_, the imaginings conjured by your mind in its idleness, free from the constraints of reality. Not all dreams are beautiful. Have you never had a nightmare?"

Luke paused, memories of waking up sweating in the middle of the night vivid in his mind. "Yes," he answered heavily. "Many times."

"I'm living in one," the bird sighed.

"Will you be quiet!" the old man growled.

"Sorry."

"Hmmph! Dreams, the consciousness of sleep. Sleep, a state of rest, in which we shut ourselves to the world. To sleep, to die, to sleep," the Wise Man muttered, forgetting Luke's presence in his concentration on the definitions of sleep, shuffling out of the clearing and into the maze. "To sleep, to end the heart-ache and thousand natural shocks of flesh, to sleep, to consummate...."*

"Hey!" Luke called, but the Wise Man didn't hear him.

"Mmm grrfff mmm mmfff!"

"If you're trying to open the doors, you have to knock, you know," the rude door knocker said suddenly. "It's only polite."

Puzzled, Luke raised a fist and rapped on the door on the left. "Like this?" Nothing happened.

"You have to knock with the ring, you idiot!" the goblin face spat in disgust. "Don't you know _anything?_"

"Oh." Blushing furiously, embarrassed to have been ridiculed by a door knocker, he raised his hand and banged the brass ring three times. The door swung open on creaking hinges, the action slow and jerky with centuries of disuse. Behind the door was a long tunnel, dark and musty. Luke swallowed.

The door knocker wasn't ready to shut up. "Can't you be more gentle than that?!" it objected. "Don't you have any consideration? That thing's attached to me!"

Luke could only shrug. "Sorry!" he mouthed, exaggerating the lip motion. As he passed the door, it slammed shut behind him.

----------------------------------------------------

The room was less grand than the others she'd seen in the castle. It was smaller, paneled in smooth warm wood and suffused with a golden glow from an unseen source. It gleamed off the polished instruments that littered the room -- the honey colored grand piano in the corner, the intricately carved mandolins on the cushioned bench, and delicate flutes on the shelves. The cello leaning against the side of the piano, violins and violas in the glass case. Mirror bright brass horns and tubas lined the walls.

"Do you play all these?" Sarah breathed in wonder, shyly running a hand along the gleaming surface of the piano. Experimentally, she pressed down on one ivory key, withdrawing the hand hurriedly when one vibrating note filled the air and echoed back at her.

"Yes and no," he replied, smiling at her unabashed delight. "Some of these instruments are as familiar as extensions of my hands, and the others I have yet to play. But I have the ability."

She looked up at him. "That doesn't make sense," she told him.

"Does anything make sense here?" he countered. Picking up the mandolin, he strummed it expertly. A tune, medieval and wistful, tinkled in the silence, and he hummed along, adding his deep voice in tandem to the mellow timbre of the instrument. After a few bars, he placed his palm against the strings, silencing the notes. He laid it down again gently. "I'm a creature of imagination, Sarah. Anything anyone has ever imagined me playing, I can."

"Huh! Modest, aren't we?" she snorted. But her expression was soft and rueful as she lifted a flute and tooted experimentally. Nothing came out, and she put it back down disappointedly. "I always wanted to play an instrument, anything. My parents sent me to violin lessons, but I couldn't grasp the pitch. It sounded like cats wailing, and I never got better. Then I tried piano lessons, but my fingers were always heavy and clumsy."

Jareth recognized the longing in her voice, and he sat down at the piano. "Why don't you sit next to me, and I'll teach you?" he asked, one hand playing a scale.

"You can't teach me! You never actually learned how to play piano, how can you teach me?" she protested. But her expression refuted her reluctance.

"Sit down, Sarah," he commanded.

Hesitantly, she obeyed. The piano bench was narrow, and it was difficult to keep herself from brushing against him every time she moved. Each accidental graze sent shocks up her left arm, rendering it numb and useless. She bit her lip, willing herself to betray nothing.

"You took a few lessons, you are acquainted with the notes?" he asked.

"I can play scales, really slowly," Sarah admitted, demonstrating. "But only in three keys. C major, G major, and F major. Oh, and 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.'"

"Well, that's a start," he allowed, smiling at her inexperience. His fingers picked out a simple tune, and Sarah wanted to laugh with the absurdity of the absolute cliché. _Heart and Soul_, of all songs! But Jareth was smiling, well aware of what he had chosen. "Do what I'm doing."

Sarah's inexpert fingers repeated the tune, trying to mimic Jareth's fingering as she muttered the notes under her breath. He joined in, two octaves lower, each note he played a prompt for her. "You must play lightly, let your fingers dance over the keyboard," he instructed. "Don't press down so heavily, like a scullery maid with clumsy chapped hands, all clipped and staccato. A piano is a beautiful instrument, not a punching bag."

And as her fingers began to move with greater dexterity, he abandoned the melody and played the harmony. More than anything, that gave her confidence, and the melody flowed more smoothly as she simply trusted her fingers to play the right notes. "I'm playing the piano!" she exclaimed.

"You're not a concert pianist yet," he reminded her.

"Oh, be quiet, this is a big step for me already!" she retorted, but she stopped. Jareth also paused in his accompaniment. "Play me something?"

He was surprised. "What do you want me to play?"

She wriggled to her right on the seat, allowing him greater range so that he could freely command all eighty eight keys. "Play me your favorite song," she suggested.

As with every request she'd made of him, he only replied, "As you wish."

His fingers were so amazingly nimble, Sarah mused as she watched them dance over the keyboard, varying between gentle caresses and rapid strokes as he conjured music from the very air. He'd removed his dark grey gloves, which lay neatly over the music stead, revealing fingers as white as the ivory keys. The sight had set her pulse quickening, just a little, to see his hands exposed to her vision. Pale and lean, they were the hands she imagined artists would have. Sculpted and long fingered. Strong. Hands that lingered upon the skin, savoring the tactile sensations of textures and warmth. Hands that worshipped and prayed. Hands that kissed as holy palmers' hands, hands that her own lips had touched. But when he set his fingers to the keys, she forgot everything but the music.

It was not the seductive trills she's expected, sinuous chords that crept under the skin, beautiful and arresting in their exoticness. The unseen notes filled the space between them were wistful and delicate as crystal droplets in the air, closing in around her in a phantom embrace. It drew out the hidden dreams in her heart until they floated like bubbles in the air, beautiful and fragile and insubstantial, and she was floating in the music, she floating through the music, falling through the music, and the world was falling down around her.

"Please stop."

She hadn't realized she'd spoken until she heard her own voice, a ragged plea that cut through the music like a rusty knife. The music faded, and he looked up at her questioning. "Don't you like it?" he asked her.

Her eyes closed, she shook her head. No. No, she didn't want to hear it. No, she didn't want to answer him. No, that's not it. No, no, no... the word echoed in the silence of her mind, so small, so powerful, yet never enough. It was not the right word. She searched for the words, the right words, but she could only hear the whisper of ghosts.

"You're teasing me," she said at last, forcing herself to look up into his mocking gaze, but he wasn't laughing at all.

"Why do you think that?"

She bit her lip, worrying the delicate skin as she chose her words carefully. "Because... because it's the music from my music box," she replied, refusing to look in his eyes again, his eyes that seemed to look into her and through her. "It's the music from the masked ball."

"And how does that matter?" he pressed her quietly.

"Because...it...we were dancing, and...I smashed the chair and...and...because it can't really be your favorite," she stammered. What was she saying? The words refused to make sense. How did she explain to him the terrible overwhelming sense of loss and fear and desire it evoked? The memory of trespassing on a ball too mature, too grand, too extravagant for her; of putting on the dress and discovering that she could not play the role; of dancing in the arms of the most handsome man she'd ever seen and wishing that he would kiss her.

"But it is."

There was no mockery in that deep voice, and she looked at him confusedly. He was looking at with burning eyes, and she had only seen him look at her that way once, but the world had begun to melt, and it had all been simply a dream, insubstantial, intangible, and flimsy illusions that faded in the morning light. But the vision of those eyes had remained, and they gazed back at her now with the same smoldering intensity that had seared her consciousness even while asleep.

Was it her imagination that she could hear the sound of mandolins playing in the pulsing silence, the breeze that plucked at her skirts running loving invisible fingers over the mandolin strings and blowing the strums into the space between them. But it didn't matter, because at that moment, Jareth pressed one bare hand against her cheek. He was trembling, his fingers trembling, worshipping the softness of her skin under his fingers. She turned into his touch, and the motion became a long slow kiss, her lips brushing against the sensitive skin of his palm, and Jareth felt as though he was burning with the warmth of her.

----------------------------------------------------

* A reference to the early draft of the movie script. Please find the link on my livejournal site.

PS. There are no fewer than 5 references, beyond the usual parallelisms to _Beauty and the Beast_, if you're up to the challenge!

I had another chapter title, I'm pretty sure I did, except I've forgotten what it was....


	18. Don't Forget to Breathe

**Disclaimer: **

Standard disclaimers apply.

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson, David Bowie, and its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

**Author's Note:**

I was hoping someone would catch my blatant "Wild is the Wind" reference in Chapter 15. :(

And I suppose no one listens to The Carpenters anymore....

If anyone is curious about what kept me up until 4:30 am, please to check at iavan_talesdotlivejournaldotcom. I may or may not post it up here at ffdotnet when this story is finally finished, however long that will take.

By the way, I imagine the piano version of "As the World Falls Down" as something like this

http : // youtubedotcom/watch?vIgs3WjnIfPk

Thank you Quicksilverboy down in Australia, although you probably don't know that I love your piano cover and am sharing the link for everyone who's been reading my fanfiction. If you readers click on the link, be nice and leave a comment letting him know how awesome he is.

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**As the World Falls Down**

**Chapter 16**

**Don't Forget to Breathe**

His bare hand trailed down slowly, lingering over her skin like raindrops after a summer storm. He was transfixed by all the details of skin he'd never felt before. Her skin was soft and silky and warm, yielding to the pressure of his own slow hesitant touch. His fingers explored the hollow of her throat, cherishing the pulse that fluttered like a caged bird beneath her skin, a reminder of the life that brimmed inside her. It was everything he'd imagined, everything he'd dreamt of, everything he'd desired.

His fingertips were cool against the heat of her skin, sending shocks of awareness through her body. He was a presence inside of her, creeping under her skin, penetrating her defenses, possessing her like a ghost. And she knew that his touch would haunt her for the rest of her life.

A loud crash shook them both out of the reverie, and Sarah drew back, unsure of what had transpired. A moment of gentleness, or a flicker of weakness, as her lips pledged an undeterminable prayer against his hand. The sound of the mandolins died into nothing, cut sharply through by the crash, and Jareth was already drawing on his gloves, forceful thrusts of his hands into folds of grey as he strode to the door without a backwards glance.

A portrait had fallen off the wall in the gallery, leaving a void amongst paintings of beautiful faces and mystical castles. Across the way, a set of double doors had been blow open, admitting a forceful gust of wind that swept beneath the gilded frames of paintings too heavy to fall, too attached to be moved. The fallen painting remained upright, the woman in its frame gazing out sedately, and Jareth stared at her in tense disbelief, the lines of his body brittle with... fear? He whirled, searching for a figure that wasn't there in the frame of the door. Slowly, the doors began to close.

But Sarah did not see it. She was arrested by the portrait, staring at it in unadulterated shock. It was not the portrait of a adolescent girl on the cusp of womanhood, which would have made some sort of sense in this world of confused logic. The hair was curled elaborately and blowing in an invisible wind, the cheekbones too defined, the chin not quite stubborn enough, and the expression carefully guarded, but there was no denying that her own face peered out at her, manifested skillfully in oil paints. The artist had managed to capture the glittering crystals on the white gown and the metallic sheen of the silver flowers in her hair, although the wide eyed innocence of seven years ago had become an expression of carefully guarded melancholy.

"Don't ask," Jareth's voice cut through her unspoken questions. He still faced the door, unwilling to see her reaction to the painting behind him. The silence was an unseen barrier between them.

After a moment, he felt her slip her hand into his, small and hesitant. He turned then, surprised at the contact that she had initiated, but she did not pull away. He followed as she guided him through the gallery, past the ethereally beautiful faces that watched them impassively from flat painted eyes.

One painting caught Sarah's eyes as they exited, a haunting painting of a crying woman surrounded by an explosion of flowers simple and exotic. Her white hair streamed down her face, blending with her tears as she knelt in desperate supplication, or was it despair? Behind her, the shadowy figure of Death melted into the darkness behind the garden, his hands carrying a little wilting flower.

It was only later that Sarah realized that she had not seen a single portrait of Jareth.

----------------------------------------------------

Dinner was a quiet affair, the air heavy with things she dared not say and words he did not want to speak. Even the clink of crystal sounded muted, as if they too were afraid to draw attention. Sarah ate without tasting her food, unable to concentrate. Her eyes flitted every so often to the silent Goblin King beside her, his chin in his hand as he studied the darkness on the other end of the table, a glass of wine the color of diluted sunlight in front of him, and she wondered what he was thinking.

Not for the first time, Sarah noticed that he was beautiful. Even as a fifteen year old child, she had realized he was unexpectedly handsome even as she cowed before his presence in her parents' bedroom. Yet the realization struck her with greater force then, gazing at his profile in the candlelight. The flickering light drew out the golden lights in his wild downy hair, illuminating his face like an ironic halo and creating shadows and depths of his features. The harsh planes of his face were softened by the gloom into something resembling tenderness, and Sarah could almost forget that he was cruel.

Hastily, she reached for her goblet and drank deeply, trying to wash away the thoughts that assaulted her. The action woke Jareth from his thoughts. "Sarah...."

"What?" she lowered the goblet with hands that were suddenly unsteady.

He seemed to be laughing at her in defeat, shaking his head as he reached forward to place his hands around hers, steadying the wavering goblet. "Precious, I would have poured you a glass if you'd asked me," he told her mischievously, his gloved hands a constant pressure on her hands, a gentle caress against her skin. The room began to dance, everything was twirling and spinning around her and the man who held her hands, who was the only constant figure in the swaying room, and she resisted the urge to rest her forehead against his arm.

"Asked you want?" she asked thickly, closing her eyes briefly. The room continued to sway, she was at sea, and land was a distant memory. She could smell the scent of his leather gloves, sharp and acrid, mixed with the fragrance she had come to associate with him, the deep heady spicy fragrance of roses and the wild wind. _God, he smells good...._

"Do I?" he asked, his voice deeply amused. His voice was closer than she expected, and she opened her eyes. He was smiling wickedly -- or does that count as a smirk? -- his eyes dancing in undisguised pleasure.

Sarah realized she'd spoken out loud, but his hands were still holding hers over the stem of the goblet, or else she would have clapped them over her treacherous mouth. Perhaps any other time, she would have wrenched them back forcefully, but it didn't seem to matter so much right now if he held her hands or not. She couldn't remember why she didn't want him to hold her hands. "Like roses," she told him. "And wind, and moonlight, and magic...."

"I like this conversation, do continue," the Goblin King purred.

"Your hair is really strange," she stated after a moment's ponder. He looked thunderstruck, and she resisted the urge to giggle. She hated women who giggled. She wanted to be so much more than a woman who giggled. "It sticks out in all different directions, and it's all different lengths. Sometimes, you look like a lion!"

"King of the beasts," Jareth said, but his velvety voice had lost an edge of enthusiasm, belying the smirk on his lips. He released her hands, leaning back into his seat.

But she refused to let him go. Holding tightly onto his hand, Sarah leaned forward conspiratorially. Why had she never realized how fun teasing him was? "But I like it," she finished with a dazzling smile, completely disarming him. "The color is unique,like...like...like sunlight! It's like sunlight, and moonlight too, like gold and silver, I don't really know how to describe it. It's like a halo of light around you. I couldn't imagine you any other way."

"You haven't," he replied dryly.

"And your eyes! Is that make-up, like battle paint, so you can scare people, or are your eyebrows really like that?" she asked, leaning out of her seat to press her face close to his as she studied his features.

Jareth blinked at the unexpected intrusion, surprised to see her face thrust so close to his own, so close that he could see each individual eyelash, see the flecks of gold in her dark green eyes, like dappled sunlight through a canopy of thick summer leaves. So close to his own, her face was both familiar and alien to him, the face of a stranger.

"Who could ever dreamed of you?" Sarah continued a little breathlessly, her face flushed from the heat and her own racing heart.

"Sarah, I think you should go to bed," he forced out, leaning back into his chair. Sarah fell forward slightly as she attempted to follow him, drawn to him by an undefined gravitation. The world fell too, and there was no up and no down, and she was so dizzy! She set her head down on the table, cushioned by her right arm, twisting her neck so that she could look up at him upside down. "Sarah."

"Why?" she asked, a petulant whine to her voice. She was strangely thirsty, and the room was swimming again, but she'd be damned before she did anything that he suggested when he suggested. Besides, they were having such a nice conversation. He was being so nice, it was so contradictory to everything she thought she knew about him, and it was nice to just sit here beside him. It was nice that he wasn't being taciturn and unsocial now, and he smelled so nice. Everything was so nice. She raised her glass again.

He caught the goblet and pulled it from her clumsy fingers. "I've think you've had more than enough," he told her, setting the glass down beyond her reach. "You've drunk more than half the glass."

She glared up at him, her red lips in a pout. Jareth wondered if she knew how absolutely delicious she looked, all delicately pink and flushed, the way he'd imagined her so often. But he'd also imagined her sober. In those fantasies, she was flushed from other reasons, not because she'd accidentally drank too much wine. "I'm thirsty!" she told him accusingly. "I'm supposed to drink when I'm thirsty."

"You're supposed to drink _water_," he replied, setting another goblet -- _her_ goblet -- in front of her. The water glittered like liquid diamonds, scattering multicolored prisms into the air. "You do not drink more wine."

Sarah stared at the glass with a growing expression of horror. _Does she know she's swaying in her seat?_ Her eyes flickered to the nearly empty goblet by the goblin king's elbow, then back to the full glass before her. "Oh, shit," she breathed, sitting up slowly and closing her eyes. She could feel now that her cheeks were on fire, a slow simmering heat that was coursing through her veins as the alcohol permeated her body. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, _shit_. I'm drunk. I--I should go...yes, I should go to bed," she stammered, pushing back her chair in order to stand up. The hurried rise to her feet sent her head reeling, and she grasped the armrest to anchor herself, except he was holding her lightly and impersonally, steadying her as the world fell back into place like Tetris pieces in the background. "Oh, thanks."

But Jareth was staring at her as if he'd never seen her before, as if he didn't dare to believe she was real, as if she was an unexpected delight that would vanish immediately if he made a _faux pas_. Sarah couldn't remember the last time anyone had looked at her that way, in such a way that she trembled from the force of his gaze alone. She never realized how eloquent his eyes were. Without realizing it, she closed her hands over the lapels of his vest.

"Kiss me," she commanded, locking her green eyes onto his blue.

How many times had he imagined her saying those very words? How many times had he fantasized about holding a trembling Sarah in his arms, her lips parted in anticipation as she begged him? To press his lips against real, warm, soft, yielding lips....

"I can't."

She pouted, really pouted, gazing up at him through her thick dark lashes as she leaned in closer to him, the swell of her breasts pressed against his abdomen. Her arms twined around his neck, and he was so still, so still under her touch. "Don't you want to?" she asked, rising to the tip of her toes, and he was oh so consciously aware of the feeling of her body, of her breasts sliding up against the front of him, even through layers of silk and brocade. "Not even a little?"

When she pressed her lips against his jaw, and he could feel the warmth of her soft skin and the intangible caress of her breath, Jareth thought he would die. Die from surprise. Die from shock. Die from the thrills that burst through his body from the naked contact, die from the frustration of such an intimate caress so close to what he wanted, but not close enough. "Sarah, you're drunk," he reminded her reluctantly, his voice hoarse with the effort of restraint.

"So?" She buried her face into his chest, rubbing her cheek against the silky finish of his cravat, and he was two breaths away from bruising her with his desire.

"Because I want you to ask me sober and fully in control of your actions," he replied, holding her away before he ate his words, and excuses be damned. "Unable to hide behind any excuse of intoxication or inebriation."

There was no response. Her soft body was too supple in his hands, and he peered at her face suspiciously. "Sarah, precious?" True to form, she was asleep on her feet, supported by his arms around her. Jareth sighed, pulling her back and tightening his arms around her shoulders. Why did she have to always make things so difficult? "Unbelievable."

----------------------------------------------------

The air was fetid inside the tunnels. Even covering his nose with his sleeve could not lessen the putrid scent that festered in the air, clogging up his lungs with slimy tendrils of putrescence. If Luke had ever studied to be a writer, he might as have described it similarly to one writer who wrote thus: "If you call to mind the three worst stinks that have ever molested you, sensitive-nostriled reader, imagine them raised to the power of seven, then intensively distilled into a small but curiously powerful pump held an inch away from your face and driven by a fan, you ought not to have reached the end of this sentence for the tears in your eyes, such is the iniquity of that odor." However, lacking the proper vocabulary and the ability to employ it, he was forced to make do with facial expressions of utmost disgust and the ever popular onomatopoetic "urgh!" to describe the revulsion of the scent that assaulted his olfactory sensors. Each breath only increased his burning hatred for the ruler in the towered castle at the center of the Labyrinth.

The tunnel finally came to an end. A wide bog lay in the dim light of evening, its murky surface bubbling and spewing droplets of rank liquid into the air while it waters lapped against the stone walls. On the other side, Luke could see a thick forest of orange leaves and green trunks, the dense vegetation hiding a small beaten track. A small ledge ran the circumference of the bog, hugging the side of the stone walls and disappearing behind a curve. Who knew where it led? But the path was just beyond the rancid bog, and if he just waded over....

"Halt!"

His foot froze over the oozing bubbling surface. The voice that called out was high and shrill, despite its commanding tone. Glancing left and right, Luke could not see another soul. "Who spoke?" he demanded of the air.

"'Tis I, Sir Didymus!" the voice replied. It came from somewhere close to the ground behind him. Turning to face the unknown speaker, Luke nearly fell backwards into the putrid bog. A little fox terrier, dressed elegantly as Romantic courtier in a scarlet and gold doublet and striped pantaloons, a feathered cap worn at a jaunty angle over one ear, swept him a low bow. His eyebrows, whiskers, and tail were white and bushy, and his one eye sparkled with cunning wit. His courtly appearance was rendered rakish by his eyepatch. "At your service, my good sir!"

"You told me to halt, but how else am I supposed to reach the other side?" Luke asked, more than a little taken aback by the fox terrier's eccentric appearance. "I'm trying to get to the castle."

"Thou must not wade through the Bog of Eternal Stench!" Didymus declared. "Its stench transfers with the slightest contact and never fades, despite all valiant efforts."

"You mean I'll stink for the rest of my life?" Luke exclaimed, his face distorted in disgust. He stepped back from the water's edge.

"Aye, verily, my good sir," Didymus agreed.

Part of Luke wanted to throw a tantrum. Perhaps he would fling himself at the ground and beat upon the dirt surface with his fists. Maybe he would pick up the shrill yapping fox terrier and toss him into the damnable Bog. Or he could actually go swimming in the Bog and show up at the castle and overwhelm Jareth with the putrescence of his own creation., but the logical heroic portion of him reminded him that he'd still have to face Sarah. Malodor was out of the question. "Is there any other way across this thing then?" he asked.

"There used to be a bridge, which I guarded with my own life and honor!" the fox terrier boasted. "It fell during the quest of the previous challenger."

"ARGH." The tantrum seemed a better and better idea. "So the castle is an impenetrable fortress? Is this some kind of joke?!"

"I did not say that, my good sir!" Didymus protested. "The bridge fell, but there is still a way across. But even after thou hast crossed the Bog, beyond lies the other dangers and hardships to hinder thy way. No one has reached the castle in seven years."

That had to be Sarah. Respect for the fearless green-eyed actor welled up in his heart. Luke knelt down by the knight, lowering himself to the same eye level, an act of supplication? "Please, Sir Didymus. How do I get across?"

"The Maiden's Ford, of course," the canine knight answered. "If thou followeth the wall in this direction, thou shalt reach a path of stones across the narrowest stretch of the Bog. Art thou on a quest, good sir?"

Luke stood up. "Yes, I am," he answered. "I'm going to save the princess in the castle."

----------------------------------------------------

Sarah dreamt that she was playing in a garden of flowers both plain and exotic, a riot of color and fragrance that dazzled her. The bushes were splattered with blossoms and red and pink, and morning glory the color of indigo sunsets crept over the low stone wall. Pansies dotted the lush grass, and buttercups laid out a carpet of creamy gold. There were bushes of marigolds and fox gloves, clusters of lilies and daffodils. Riots of geraniums and daisies an bluebells and lilies of the valley. A wide expanse of violets and irises and honeysuckle. But there was a flower missing...which flower could it be?

The owl in the tree hooted sadly, hopping from branch to branch frantically to gain her attention. Its cries echoed in her ears. "Who! Who!"

_Who?_

Furrowing her brow, she delved deeper into her pillow. Except her pillow wasn't as soft as usual, it was hard and smooth, yet strangely comfortable. It was just the right shape and size, and her face fitted into the curve of it perfectly. She wrapped her arms around her pillow tightly. And was her mattress moving? Deep rhythmic heaves, curiously like...like...someone breathing..._Shit._

"Good morning, I suppose."

"Morning, my ass!" she yelled from the floor, where she'd thrown herself in her moment of realization. "How can it be morning if the sun _never rises_ in this place? Oh, my god, I got drunk didn't I? I didn't do anything I'd regret, did I? Oh god, oh god, oh god...."

Jareth sat up slowly, his face lit in a satisfied smirk. He'd lost his cravat and vest from last night, his bare chest visible through his open shirt. His pendant glittered in the firelight. Even his feet were bare. _Bare feet? That's a little too gratuitous for me_, Sarah thought in despair as she clutched the bed sheet to herself, despite the fact that she was still fully clothed. "I think that depends on you. What would you have regretted doing?" he asked silkily, settling against the headboard comfortably. "Not that you seemed displeased at the time. Shall I recount last evening's activities, and you can tell me whether or not you regret it?"

"Oh, god, _no_," Sarah moaned, covered her face with her hands. "So I did do something, didn't I?"

"With you inebriated and half unconscious that you can't remember your actions?" Jareth replied, drawing his knees up and resting his elbows on them as he leaned forward. "Bit of a waste. If I were to seduce you, I'd make sure you'd remember every second of it."

"_You're not helping!_" she growled. "Oh, god, oh god, I didn't even drink that much! Seriously, what happened last night? We didn't, you know...."

His expression clearly betrayed his enjoyment of the circumstances. Rolling forward onto his belly, the Goblin King pulled himself forward by the elbows until he was face to face with the blushing girl. She was so much more adorable when she blushed from embarrassment. He smiled, showing pointed teeth as he languished on the bed amidst its rumpled sheets. His didn't think it was possible for Sarah to become any redder, but she did. She really was so adorable, hiding such a dirty mind beneath that porcelain exterior. "Maybe I should refresh your memory?" he whispered, before pressing his lips to her jaw.

It was a chaste kiss, nothing like her plea of drunken desire. Yet it was also a promise -- a slow, soft, deliberate caress of his lips against her heated skin.

His princess was still, absolute immobile as he drew back. As she watched, he licked his lips carefully, relishing the taste of her that lingered upon him. She fought to calm her breathing, nostrils flaring just slightly. She waited. When he made no further movements, she asked in a tight, strangled voice, "Is that it?"

He shrugged as best he could leaning on his elbows, replying, "Unfortunately, yes. You kissed me and passed out immediately afterwards. You do know it's impolite to tease! I had no choice but to carry you to your room and put you to bed. I assure you I did not take advantage of your inebriated state."

"_Then what are you still doing here?!"_

His slow wide smile made her wish she hadn't asked. "Well, you grabbed my wrist and wouldn't let go. As I said, I had no choice."

"GET OUT."

----------------------------------------------------

**Further Author's Note:** If the drunk scene doesn't seem absolutely authentic, I apologize deeply. I haven't been gloriously smashed in a while, and so I've forgotten what sort of antics people usually come up with when absolutely miraculous. While I would have liked to done research for this scene, there's only beer available in my house, and I'm horrible at drinking that. Also, I'm only funny when drunk around other people; I'm a miserable drunk by myself. Thank you **Paillette** for offering input in this matter.

I also admit, I read too much shoujo manga while writing this. And I enjoy cock blocking Jareth.


	19. Story of a Mother II

**Disclaimer: **

Standard disclaimers apply.

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson, David Bowie, and its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

The following story is not mine. It is Hans Christian Andersen's.

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**As the World Falls Down**

**Chapter 17**

**The Story of a Mother (II)**

**A MOTHER** sat by her little child; she was very sad, for she feared it would die. It was quite pale, and its little eyes were closed, and sometimes it drew a heavy deep breath, almost like a sigh; and then the mother gazed more sadly than ever on the poor little creature. Some one knocked at the door, and a poor old man walked in. He was wrapped in something that looked like a great horse-cloth; and he required it truly to keep him warm, for it was cold winter; the country everywhere lay covered with snow and ice, and the wind blew so sharply that it cut one's face. The little child had dozed off to sleep for a moment, and the mother, seeing that the old man shivered with the cold, rose and placed a small mug of beer on the stove to warm for him. The old man sat and rocked the cradle; and the mother seated herself on a chair near him, and looked at her sick child who still breathed heavily, and took hold of its little hand.

"You think I shall keep him, do you not?" she said. "Our all-merciful God will surely not take him away from me.

The old man, who was indeed Death himself, nodded his head in a peculiar manner, which might have signified either Yes, or No; and the mother cast down her eyes, while the tears rolled down her cheeks. Then her head became heavy, for she had not closed her eyes for three days and nights, and she slept, but only for a moment. Shivering with cold, she started up and looked round the room. The old man was gone, and her child—it was gone too!—the old man had taken it with him. In the corner of the room the old clock began to strike; "whirr" went the chains, the heavy weight sank to the ground, and the clock stopped; and the poor mother rushed out of the house calling for her child. Out in the snow sat a woman in long black garments, and she said to the mother, "Death has been with you in your room. I saw him hastening away with your little child; he strides faster than the wind, and never brings back what he has taken away."

"Only tell me which way he has gone," said the mother; "tell me the way, I will find him.

"I know the way," said the woman in the black garments; "but before I tell you, you must sing to me all the songs that you have sung to your child; I love these songs, I have heard them before. I am Night, and I saw your tears flow as you sang.

"I will sing them all to you," said the mother; "but do not detain me now. I must overtake him, and find my child."

But Night sat silent and still. Then the mother wept and sang, and wrung her hands. And there were many songs, and yet even more tears; till at length Night said, "Go to the right, into the dark forest of fir-trees; for I saw Death take that road with your little child."

Within the wood the mother came to cross roads, and she knew not which to take. Just by stood a thorn-bush; it had neither leaf nor flower, for it was the cold winter time, and icicles hung on the branches. "Have you not seen Death go by, with my little child?" she asked.

"Yes," replied the thorn-bush; "but I will not tell you which way he has taken until you have warmed me in your bosom. I am freezing to death here, and turning to ice."

Then she pressed the bramble to her bosom quite close, so that it might be thawed, and the thorns pierced her flesh, and great drops of blood flowed; but the bramble shot forth fresh green leaves, and they became flowers on the cold winter's night, so warm is the heart of a sorrowing mother. Then the bramble-bush told her the path she must take. She came at length to a great lake, on which there was neither ship nor boat to be seen. The lake was not frozen sufficiently for her to pass over on the ice, nor was it open enough for her to wade through; and yet she must cross it, if she wished to find her child. Then she laid herself down to drink up the water of the lake, which was of course impossible for any human being to do; but the bereaved mother thought that perhaps a miracle might take place to help her. "You will never succeed in this," said the lake; "let us make an agreement together which will be better. I love to collect pearls, and your eyes are the purest I have ever seen. If you will weep those eyes away in tears into my waters, then I will take you to the large hothouse where Death dwells and rears flowers and trees, every one of which is a human life."

"Oh, what would I not give to reach my child!" said the weeping mother; and as she still continued to weep, her eyes fell into the depths of the lake, and became two costly pearls.

Then the lake lifted her up, and wafted her across to the opposite shore as if she were on a swing, where stood a wonderful building many miles in length. No one could tell whether it was a mountain covered with forests and full of caves, or whether it had been built. But the poor mother could not see, for she had wept her eyes into the lake. "Where shall I find Death, who went away with my little child?" she asked.

"He has not arrived here yet," said an old gray-haired woman, who was walking about, and watering Death's hothouse. "How have you found your way here? and who helped you?"

"God has helped me," she replied. "He is merciful; will you not be merciful too? Where shall I find my little child?"

"I did not know the child," said the old woman; "and you are blind. Many flowers and trees have faded to-night, and Death will soon come to transplant them. You know already that every human being has a life-tree or a life-flower, just as may be ordained for him. They look like other plants; but they have hearts that beat. Children's hearts also beat: from that you may perhaps be able to recognize your child. But what will you give me, if I tell you what more you will have to do?"

"I have nothing to give," said the afflicted mother; "but I would go to the ends of the earth for you."

"I can give you nothing to do for me there," said the old woman; "but you can give me your long black hair. You know yourself that it is beautiful, and it pleases me. You can take my white hair in exchange, which will be something in return."

"Do you ask nothing more than that?" said she. "I will give it to you with pleasure."

And she gave up her beautiful hair, and received in return the white locks of the old woman. Then they went into Death's vast hothouse, where flowers and trees grew together in wonderful profusion. Blooming hyacinths, under glass bells, and peonies, like strong trees. There grew water-plants, some quite fresh, and others looking sickly, which had water-snakes twining round them, and black crabs clinging to their stems. There stood noble palm-trees, oaks, and plantains, and beneath them bloomed thyme and parsley. Each tree and flower had a name; each represented a human life, and belonged to men still living, some in China, others in Greenland, and in all parts of the world. Some large trees had been planted in little pots, so that they were cramped for room, and seemed about to burst the pot to pieces; while many weak little flowers were growing in rich soil, with moss all around them, carefully tended and cared for. The sorrowing mother bent over the little plants, and heard the human heart beating in each, and recognized the beatings of her child's heart among millions of others.

"That is it," she cried, stretching out her hand towards a little crocus-flower which hung down its sickly head.

"Do not touch the flower," exclaimed the old woman; "but place yourself here; and when Death comes—I expect him every minute—do not let him pull up that plant, but threaten him that if he does you will serve the other flowers in the same manner. This will make him afraid; for he must account to God for each of them. None can be uprooted, unless he receives permission to do so."

There rushed through the hothouse a chill of icy coldness, and the blind mother felt that Death had arrived.

"How did you find your way hither?" asked he; "how could you come here faster than I have?"

"I am a mother," she answered.

And Death stretched out his hand towards the delicate little flower; but she held her hands tightly round it, and held it fast at same time, with the most anxious care, lest she should touch one of the leaves. Then Death breathed upon her hands, and she felt his breath colder than the icy wind, and her hands sank down powerless.

"You cannot prevail against me," said Death.

"But a God of mercy can," said she.

"I only do His will," replied Death. "I am his gardener. I take all His flowers and trees, and transplant them into the gardens of Paradise in an unknown land. How they flourish there, and what that garden resembles, I may not tell you."

"Give me back my child," said the mother, weeping and imploring; and she seized two beautiful flowers in her hands, and cried to Death, "I will tear up all your flowers, for I am in despair."

"Do not touch them," said Death. "You say you are unhappy; and would you make another mother as unhappy as yourself?"

"Another mother!" cried the poor woman, setting the flowers free from her hands.

"There are your eyes," said Death. "I fished them up out of the lake for you. They were shining brightly; but I knew not they were yours. Take them back—they are clearer now than before—and then look into the deep well which is close by here. I will tell you the names of the two flowers which you wished to pull up; and you will see the whole future of the human beings they represent, and what you were about to frustrate and destroy."

Then she looked into the well; and it was a glorious sight to behold how one of them became a blessing to the world, and how much happiness and joy it spread around. But she saw that the life of the other was full of care and poverty, misery and woe.

"Both are the will of God," said Death.

"Which is the unhappy flower, and which is the blessed one?" she said.

"That I may not tell you," said Death; "but thus far you may learn, that one of the two flowers represents your own child. It was the fate of your child that you saw,—the future of your own child."

Then the mother screamed aloud with terror, "Which of them belongs to my child? Tell me that. Deliver the unhappy child. Release it from so much misery. Rather take it away. Take it to the kingdom of God. Forget my tears and my entreaties; forget all that I have said or done."

"I do not understand you," said Death. "Will you have your child back? or shall I carry him away to a place that you do not know?"

Then the mother wrung her hands, fell on her knees, and prayed to God, "Grant not my prayers, when they are contrary to Thy will, which at all times must be the best. Oh, hear them not;" and her head sank on her bosom.

Then Death carried away her child to the unknown land.

----------------------------------------------------

**Author's Note:** Truthfully, this chapter is really just a placeholder for now. By that I mean, I'm using it to buy some time. Unfortunately and inexplicably, I'm a little burned out from writing, I think I'm suffering from GK-overload (who knew it was even possible!?). Don't worry, I'm planning on finishing the story, it's all been outlined, and I know exactly how it's going to end. It's just going to take a little longer than originally expected. Will submit the newest chapter (or more) when I've finished recharging.

*puts headphones back on to drown out shouts of anger and disappointment, or to drown out the fact that there aren't any shouts of disappointment*


	20. The Stars That Tremble

**Disclaimer: **

Standard disclaimers apply.

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson, David Bowie, and its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

**Author's Note: **

I've revised chapters 4 through 7 and chapters 9 and 10.

The interaction between Sarah and Luke has changed quite dramatically, so I strongly urge that everyone reread chapters 5 and 6. As the author, I'd encourage you to read all the revised chapters, even though the plot hasn't been altered as greatly, mostly for changes in the description and exposition and back story. And truthfully, mostly because I like your foremost impression to be what I consider the improved version of the story.

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**As the World Falls Down**

**Chapter 18**

**The Stars That Tremble**

Luke found the path of stones, as Sir Didymus promised, gigantic boulders immersed in the coagulated water across its narrowest strait. They sunk slightly deeper into the bog with each step, bubbling and squelching nauseatingly. A slab of broken stone jutted out of the water like a drowning hand reaching for the sun, the last remains of the bridge. It didn't look very strong. Crossing the bog, the stench was overwhelming, and he covered his nose with a sleeve to filter the air. It didn't help at all. "Ow!"

He'd slipped, falling forward onto hands and knees. Only sheer luck had saved him from falling into the swirling muck. But the stepping stones were slimy, and he wiped them on his trousers hurriedly, just in case.

The castle was vaguely visible above the tops of the trees. Lights winked in and out of life, vague signs of activity within the crumbling structure. Luke paused on the edge of the forest, wondering what Sarah was doing -- the light shining in the tower was her, and whether or not she knew that he too was here, fighting his way through the Labyrinth towards her. Unbidden, the immortal words of Shakespeare came to his lips.

_But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?_

_It is the east, and Juliet is the sun._

_Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,_

_Who is already sick and pale with grief,_

_That thou her maid art far more fair than she...._

And he would find her. He would find his way to the castle in the heart of the Labyrinth, fulfilling the quest set forth by the wicked king, and he would find Sarah, and he would take her from this dark world and back in the sunlight of the real world.

--------------------------------------------------

She'd tried to wash away his touch, but the memory of him clung to her skin. No matter how hard she'd scrubbed, she couldn't banish his invisible touch. He was on her skin, under her skin, all over her and inside of her. He was a constant unseen presence, present in the smell of the roses and the rumpled silken sheets on the bed and in the silence. The smell of roses was the scent of his skin, an invisible ocean that washed over her and dragged her into its depths, the tangled sheets the reminder of his absence, a reminder of the warmth of his body beneath hers. The silence echoed with his unheard voice.

_If I were to seduce you, I'd make sure you'd remember every second of it...._

--------------------------------------------------

Deep in the forest, the trail wend whimsically through the glittering trees. They sparkled with tiny pinpricks of light, like glitter confetti strewn over the trunks of antediluvian trees and over the beaten path. More than anything else he'd seen, the glittering landscape reminded Luke that he now travelled through a world far different from his own. The winking lights breathed life into the still dark shapes, and he could easily imagine that the forest was breathing. The thick canopy of leaves was black against the sky, little pockets of darkness amidst the stars.

He pressed the heels of his palm against tired eyes, rubbing the fatigue out of his eyes. He had wandered the forest for hours, unsure of his direction and whether he traveled closer to the castle or further away. Unlike the writhing maze, the thick trees hid the castle from view, and he had nothing -- no destination, no guiding sun or moon -- to orient his direction, nothing to indicate how long he'd been walking. It was also quiet in the forest. He heard neither the croaking of frogs or the trills of birds. He had yet to encounter a goblin.

Even Jareth seemed to have abandoned him.

"That's fine, I don't need him," Luke muttered, leaning against a tree for balance. He spoke to beat back the overwhelming silence that seemed to be watching and listening. "He's a liar and a cheat and evil. He'd only laugh at me. He'd probably point me in the wrong direction too."

_No, he wouldn't,_ a little voice inside him said. _He's mocked you, but he hasn't pulled any dirty tricks on you._

"The point, he's a dirty lying cheat, and it's better that he's not here to distract me," he repeated with greater fervor, kicking a tree root. "He made me think he was helping me."

He did not hear the forest move.

--------------------------------------------------

Sarah brushed her hair with undeserved fervor, swatting angrily at the wet tangled knots. One violent stroke nearly tore the hair out of her scalp -- "Ow! Damn it!" -- and her anger dissipated into frustration. She wasn't really angry, because how could she really blame Jareth for her drunken behavior? She wasn't even angry at herself, just...embarrassed, because as amiable as he'd been the past few days, she could not forget that he was the Goblin King, and for all the years that had passed and all the men she'd kissed, she would always be the little naive fifteen year old girl who stupidly wished away her baby brother in a moment of irritation.

Jareth paused in the doorway, his eyes raking in the image of Sarah seated before her vanity, dressed in a silk robe that draped lovingly over the curves of the body. Her wet hair hung down her back in wet coils, curling like snakes down her back, like a figure out of Greek mythology. Except Greek mythology was never kind to its heroines, so often the object of the lust of gods and the jealous spite of goddesses, the victim of the world's capriciousness. But if he were to assign her a role, she would by his Psyche.

"You look like a present," he murmured in her ear, letting his lips brush -- just barely -- against the tip of her ear as he bent over her sitting form. His fingers rested lightly on the belt of the robe. She looked up, startled, meeting the gaze of his reflection. His eyes bore into her eyes through the looking glass, dark with undisguised heat. "When can I unwrap you?"

"You're not unwrapping anything," she replied through gritted teeth, refusing to flinch from him, refusing to be affected. Yet the tips of her ears were tinged pink, and he could see how the muscles in her neck had tensed with the wind of his breath. "Not if you want to keep your hands."

"Such antagonism, princess," he teased. "But I've brought you a present. Think of it as an offering of truce, or an apology for earlier."

Her protests of unwanted generosity, of never accepting anything he'd offer her, died as he placed his offering on the vanity surface. "My ring!" she exclaimed, picking up the bauble. "The one I gave the Wise Man. How...."

Turning to face him, she flinched involuntarily at his closeness to her. He knelt on the floor, next to her, behind her, his face only inches from her own. Hastily, she looked back down at the ring. Jareth pretended not to notice. "I asked him for it," he replied succinctly. "Do you want it?"

A recollection made her frown, and she looked back at him, careful to maintain the distance between them. "I gave it to him fair and square," she told the king, "I can't take it back. You shouldn't have taken it from him." She held the ring back out to him.

"He was amply compensated for his loss, precious. Don't worry your pretty head over it," he said with a smile. "Go on, take it."

She still held out the ring, though the look in her eyes had become hesitant. Desire clashed with morality. The ring itself was worthless, a cheap trinket made from base metals and cut glass. But the setting was beautifully made, and her mother had worn it on the stage. After the last performance, Linda had pulled the ring off her finger and pressed into Sarah's fourteen year old with a wink and a finger across the lips. A secret. "A little piece of stage magic for you keep with you," she'd told her entranced daughter. But she had given it payment for the Wise Man's advice.

"Very well," Jareth said, when she made no reply. Taking the ring from her, he surprised her by lifting her left hand and sliding the ring over her ring finger. It fitted perfectly.

Sarah stared at the Goblin King, who knelt by her feet with her hand in his, who had just slipped a ring on her hand. The ring glittered in the golden light of the room, beautiful despite its low worth. The red stone sparkled brilliantly, as dazzling as a carbuncle. She felt as if a promise had just been made, undefined and yet binding all the same. What promise had she made? Or rather, what pledge had she unknowingly accepted?

"Thank you." Her voice sounded uncertain in her own ears."So what _did_ you give the Wise Man in return for this? A promise not to Bog him? Or perhaps a vacation in an oubliette?"

"Now, why do you have to spoil the moment by asking such a question?" Jareth murmured, releasing her hand as he stood up, resuming his stance behind her. His hands were a warm pressure upon her shoulders through the thin silk. She contined to stare him through the mirror, an eyebrow lifted skeptically. He sighed. "If you must know, I gave him another piece of jewelry in return. A trinket for a trinket. Truly, you have a cynical opinion of me, my dear."

Despite his wounded tone, his eyes twinkled with mischief, his lips curved slightly in amusement. "Well, you don't have the greatest track record" she said wryly, her good humor returning. And she smiled at him. "Can you blame me?"

That smile, above all else, disarmed him. In it, he saw her unaffected -- was it delight? Gratitude? He couldn't identify it, but it burst upon him like a brilliant sunrise, and he felt himself melting under its shining warmth. His fingers tightening almost imperceptibly on her shoulders. Almost. In the mirror, his eyes were pale, crystalline blue. Her smile faded in confusion. "No," he said at last. "I have never learned kindness. Anything I have ever wanted, I have taken through any means necessary. If it was not given willingly, then I took it by force. You are the first to have reclaimed what I took, and that right you won from me, fairly and squarely, despite all my efforts to the contrary. I hated you then. I hated you with a passion. So no, I cannot blame your opinion of me. And yet...."

His hands trailed down her sides to rest lightly on her waist -- her breath hitched -- as he sat down on the other side of the low bench next to her. He turned her face towards him with one silk gloved finger. "Can you blame me? Seven years ago, we were enemies, opposites sides of a game we both played to win. You frightened me, even then, with your unbreakable spirit and your will. Your will was not as strong as mine, it was even greater. Oh yes, I was frightened, Sarah."

His voice dropped to a whisper, rough with the force of his wanting. "Even now, you still frighten me."

But it wasn't fear that made his eyes burn so fiercely, she was absolutely certain of that. Neither was it hatred. There was no mirth, no scornful amusement, no mischief in the way he looked at her now, and there was nowhere to hide from his eyes. They burned with longing and desire and promise. He'd looked at her the same all those years ago when he spun her in his arms, when he offered everything she'd ever dreamed, and she had willfully refused to see. But she couldn't pretend anymore.

The story had changed. What had happened to the terrifying Goblin King? She did not know which story they were in anymore, did not know the parts they were playing. What was her part, what were her lines? Jareth claimed the role of the villain, but was there really a villain? _There are no villains in this story,_ she'd told him. She did not want a villain. But what did she want?

But perhaps this wasn't a story. Perhaps this was something else entirely.

Perhaps she had taken Jareth for granted.

And so when he kissed her, fierce with seven years worth of desire and wanting and waiting, she did not push him away.

He pulled back at the feeling of her hands on his face, cupping his cheeks tenderly. He flinched at her brazen caress, not daring to believe that she had not fled from him. His eyes were closed, and he breathed heavily, his nostrils flaring with every breath. "You should be careful, Sarah," he said stiffly. When he opened his eyes, they burned her with their heat. "I make allowances for you, but even my patience has limits. There are _consequences. _Soon, you will go too far, and I will not be able to stop myself."

"Then don't," she said simply, and she pulled him back down again, and they were both falling, falling, falling....

And no longer strangers to each other, they chose the path between the stars.

--------------------------------------------------

When he opened his eyes, Sarah was gone. He sat up slowly from the tousled sheets. She was a silhouette at the window, dark against the starry sky. From where he lay, the stars seemed to shine brighter, glowing with the triumph that he felt. The moon illuminated her cheek as she stared outside, and his keen eyes saw that she was smiling. In the darkness, he watched as she plucked a rose from the creepers around her window, black in the gloom, and pressed it to her lips. A moment of private revelation, unconsciously and unknowingly witnessed by the unseen voyeur, a picture framed in darkness.

_Tu pure, o Principessa, nella tua fredda stanza, _

_guardi le stelle che tremano d'amore, e di speranza!*_

"Sarah," he called softly.

She turned, her features falling back into shadow. She padded back to the bed on silent barefeet, creeping back under the covers to press herself against him, burying her face in the curve of his neck. Her skin was cool against the feverish heat of his body, and he held her close to him.

"If this is a dream, it is a good dream," she murmured quietly against the soft pulse that trembled under her lips. She slipped back into sleep, lulled by the rise and fall of his breathing.

He felt the moment she was asleep, feeling her relax against him trustingly. He had never dared imagine that this could ever happen, that he would hold her in his arms, even as he had hoped for it desperately and passionately. He had kissed her, his open mouth searching hers for a treasure she withheld, yearning for the warmth of her living breath, starving for the taste of her, and she had not fled from him. He'd kissed her, and she was alive and warm beneath his lips. She had surrendered to him, completely and willingly, laying herself bare before him, and in so doing, she had claimed him too irrevocably. He had kissed her, and she had surrendered.

And in the morning, he would be victorious.

--------------------------------------------------

*** **Even you, O Princess, in your cold bedroom, watch the stars that tremble with love and with hope!

A line from a famous aria, _Nessun Dorma, _written by the inimitable Puccini. It's featured in the opera _Turandot_.

Those of you might also know that Paul Potts sang his way to glory and first place of _Britain's Got Talent_ with this very aria. Youtube it!

**Author's Note:**

Truthfully, I sometimes have to remind myself that Luke exists. Part of me just wants to forget about him until he arrives at the castle (if he ever gets there).

As for the kiss... I decided that I would not attempt to describe a kiss that everyone has waited with bated breath for so long. You can imagine how it was yourself.

God, I'm exhausted from writing this. Again David Bowie and his incarnation as the Goblin King has kept me up past 4am. Please let me know you love me and you love this chapter, so I will have the energy to write the next.


	21. The Sleepless Beauty

**Disclaimer: **

Standard disclaimers apply.

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson, David Bowie, and its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

Find the hidden song/literature reference(s)!

**IMPORTANT (Well, maybe, kind of, sort of, a little....) -- **Some of you might have trouble reviewing this chapter, if you reviewed the chapter previously. That's because I went back and deleted the silly one-sentence chapter, causing the chapter number to go back one. As a result, the system may think you've already reviewed this chapter. If that happens, well... submit as a review for another chapter?

**Thank you everyone who responded to my shameless plea to be told I'm loved.**

**Cybernetic Mango -**Imma pretend you didn't say that.  
**J Luc Pitard **- Nice observation about the ring, but it _was_ Sarah's own ring to begin with. I think. Maybe. Nice observation about the ring.  
**S.R. Devaste** - Actually, I agree, Pavorotti all the way. I just wanted to point out that Paul Potts sang his way to fame and glory and triumph with this aria, of all the songs he could have sang. I'm not a Puccini expert, but I love him, especially his usage of Eastern influences and how he addresses the issues of Orientalism in i_Madama Butterfly./i_ And there's always "O Mio Babbino Caro."  
**Insanity Fairy **- My, my, jumping to conclusion, aren't we? Taking things for granted, aren't we?  
**All4grandtheftauto **- God, that's a mouthful. Anyways...hold onto that thought. Personally, I'm a huge fan of Shakespeare. It's not his fault that i_Romeo and Juliet/i_ has become a cliche over the past four hundred years. Unfortunately, as the author, I can't forget about Luke. Don't you understand that I can't? Besides, the story doesn't look that long.... But then, it could be longer than I think. At least I have more than thirteen hours to complete it.

* * *

**Chapter 19**

**The Sleepless Beauty**

Is it like this  
In death's other kingdom  
Waking alone  
At the hour when we are  
Trembling with tenderness  
Lips that would kiss  
Form prayers....

-- T.S. Eliot "The Hollow Men," III

* * *

He was warm against her skin, under her skin, inside of her, possessing her like a ghost until she could not tell where her skin ended and his began.

Fierce and possessive at first, his kisses became gentle and sweet, easing over her lips until Sarah was limp against him, supported only by his hands on her waist, caressing her through his gloves and through the thin robe she wore over a thinner shift, and she clung to him like the spring leaf clings to the tree. Never stilling his kisses, he'd lifted her from the seat, and she'd wrapped her legs around him, pressing herself closer to him as he carried her to her bed. He kissed her like a man long since drowning, and she was his salvation, sweeter and dearer than oxygen. She was of life itself, and he drank her in hungrily. There was a fire burning inside her, threatening to consume her with its heat, and the fire was Jareth, inside her and possessing her.

He pulled away again with a soft sigh, lips lingering against hers. "Sarah, my darling, you seem determined to tempt me," he whispered roughly against her lips. She didn't have to see his eyes to know that they were black with desire. She could feel his hands trembling.

"And I thought it was the other away around. I thought you were supposed to be the dark seducer," she murmured in reply, claiming kisses he could not deny her.

"Ah, well" -- his mouth trailed lower -- "that was until five minutes ago."

"Every passing minute is a chance to turn it all around," she told him, and she drew him down onto the bed, her hair a dark halo about her face. Her robe had slipped open, revealing sharp clavicles that he traced with a tongue, exploring the little pool where it melted into her shoulder, the hollow of her throat, pausing in his ministrations to tear the glove off his hand with his teeth, even as that hand slipped daringly under the skirt of her robe to rest on her thigh.

She went still beneath his touch. Even through the silk of his glove, it was an intimate gesture, vaguely threatening in its intentions. There was no mistaking those intentions, and the implications of the situation began to catch up with Sarah Williams.

He had kissed her, and she had responded willingly. That part was easy to comprehend. Even without his pretty words, his kisses were enough to kill all critical judgment. She had never kissed anyone who kissed the way he did, who lit a fire in the pit of her belly and put all end to coherent thought. Yet somewhere between accepting his kiss and reciprocating it, she was here. In her bed. With him. The Goblin King. And his hand rested lovingly on her thigh.

Sarah struggled to sit up. "No, wait," she panted, fighting to hold on coherent thought despite the torrent of kisses he showered upon her. She placed a hand on his mouth, stilling his kisses.

"Whatever for?"

"Please," she begged, and he quieted, sitting back on his heels. His eyes were dark with unbridled lust, and she shivered under the intensity of that gaze. But if she didn't say anything now, she wouldn't be able to later. She swallowed, closing her eyes so that she wouldn't have to look at his eyes. "It's just...I've never really done this before," she squeaked.

Part of her observed the situation in disbelief -- she was discussing her sex life with the Goblin King. But then, stranger things have happened. She hurried on. "I mean, I have, once, but it didn't really count! I was so stupid, I regretted it later on. It was the only time I ever got drunk, I mean Aboveground, and I didn't even know what I was doing until I woke up the next morning and realized.... I don't even remember any of it. And so I told myself that the next time, I'd be absolutely sure, that I would make up for what I lost...."

Moments passed, and Jareth said nothing, and she didn't dare to open her eyes. She didn't want to see his expression, the accusation in his eyes. She didn't know if she could bare it.

And then he was cupping her face tenderly. "Sarah, look at me," he said. "_Look at me._"

She obeyed reluctantly, drawing in a ragged breath that hitched in her throat. Whatever she had expected, it was not the look on Jareth's face. There was no trace of laughter on his lips, no hint of anger or displeasure or judgment in his blue eyes, no dark passion that threatened to devour her. It was the expression of someone who'd been given something very precious and very fragile, and he feared to break it. As if she was precious and fragile.

"It doesn't matter," he told her fiercely, yet his fingers on her face were gentle. "May that boy pray he never meets me. I would never take advantage of you that way. I haven't taken advantage of you that way. If you're frightened, we'll stop. I will only go as far as you let me. I promise you."

"But you said, you're accustomed to taking whatever you wanted," she said in a small voice.

Jareth frowned, a small crease appearing between his black brows. "Ah, well," he hurrumphed, his fingers slipping into her hair, tangling into black curls as he pulled her forward gently by the back of her neck. "As I said, that was before you. You never make things easy for me." And he kissed her gently and chastely.

And she wondered later, lying in the circle of his arms, how she could ever have misjudged him. The candles had extinguished, washing the room in shadows and moonlight. It illuminated his skin with an ethereal glow, so pale that it was almost blue next to the golden rosiness of her own skin, as pale as the shift she wore. He was very still, so still she almost imagined that he was asleep if not for the hand that stroke her hair as lightly as the moonlight itself.

And she wondered if she'd misunderstood herself too.

* * *

She dreamt that she wandered a palace built of ice and snow. The walls were cold, colder than death, so cold that they took the skin off, and she was careful not to brush against them accidentally. Light from an invisible source streamed through their translucent barrier, distorted by unseen curves and cleavages in the ice, and the edges of the walls blurred together until Sarah could not tell where one walls of one room began and another ended.

She was searching for something. A boy.

She found him in the last room, a great antechamber where the floor shone as brightly as a mirror. Except it was cracked, splinters of ice that formed puzzles. The boy with golden hair sat in the center of room, playing with the pieces, and although his fingers were blue and his skin deathly pale, he did not seem to feel the cold.

"I've come to take you home," she told him gently.

"I can't," he sobbed, his fingers scrabbling desperately in the ice. "I can't go until I've figured out this puzzle. She won't let me go until I do. I have to spell it out, except I don't remember how. I can't remember at all. I can't, I can't, I can't."

"What do you have to spell?" she asked, crouching next to him. "Maybe I can help, and then we'll go home."

He turned his tear streaked face towards her, and Sarah froze at the sight of his blue eyes. She knew that face, even transformed as it was by youth and its expression of despair. She knew him. "My name," he said, pointing to the pattern he'd already shaped on the floor. "I have to spell my name, but I don't remember what it is."

He was Jareth.

* * *

The portrait was beautiful, so lifelike. The artist had capture the gleam in her eyes, a burning hunger that threatened to devour the world. He could almost see her breathe, chest swelling imperceptibly with each inhalation and exhalation. He imagined that she might step out of its gilt frame. But she didn't, for all the brightness of her painted eyes, and he gazed back at her captured beauty fearlessly, arrogantly, condescendingly.

How many times had he stood before this very painting, before this woman, searching her painted face for something he never found? How many years had he been frightened of her? How long had he hated her, this beautiful woman who terrorized the waking dreams of a creature that did not sleep? She had teased at the edge of his consciousness, always present, always there. But no longer... no longer....

"You will no longer haunt me," Jareth told the painting calmly. No longer, no longer, no longer. _Quoth the Raven, nevermore...._ "You will never haunt me again, because I don't care about you anymore. You made a mistake, and I paid the consequences. But no more. No more. I've thought about you long enough, and I will never think about you again."

And the flames began to lick hungrily at the canvas.

* * *

Sarah was alone when she woke up again. Half asleep, she reached for him instinctively, her fingers tangling in the sheets instead of an open shirt. Her cheek lay against soft silken pillows and not a cambric clad shoulder. There was nothing to indicate that she had not slept alone, except the scent of him lingering in the threads of the pillow and the sheets, and it seemed like she still lay in his invisible embrace.

* * *

_Il nome suo nessun saprà... E noi dovrem, ahimè, morir, morir!*_

* * *

Luke was hopelessly lost.

The forest trail had vanished, abandoning him among years of undisturbed foliage. There were only the silent trees, their black leaves weaving a canopy that blocked out the sky. Turning slowly where he stood, he saw nothing but an endless expanse of glittering dark trees. Nothing to mark his position, nothing to indicate whichever direction he traveled, nothing to betray a world outside this dark, yawning forest of breathing trees. There were no cries of nocturnal creatures, no rustlings of woodland animals. No caws of birds, no growling of beasts.

Nothing.

Nothing except for the barn owl, silent and white against the blackness. Too white, illuminated by an unseen light, almost as if it the owl glowed with its own light. It watched him with wide eyes that were black against its white face. It watched with eyes that were too intelligent.

Defying the barrier of trees, a breeze whistled through the branches and disturbed the leaves. Luke jumped at a rustle, whirling around in anticipation of a goblin attack, a monster, a Wild Thing, or even the Goblin King. There was only more darkness, shadowy outlines of trees he could not quite see.

"Peaceful, isn't it?" asked a deep sophisticated voice. If not for its tone of arrogant amusement, Luke would've been very happy to hear it. He turned around again, slowly, slowly.

The Goblin King leaned against the trunk of the tree, dressed head to toe in glittering black and blue. Even so, he seemed to stand out clearly from the background, the edges of his silhouette sharply defined from the shadows. His cape of midnight billowed in the breeze, and it seemed that it was woven out of the shadows of the forest.

"I suppose that's one way of saying it," Luke replied acidly. "'Silent as the grave' also springs to mind."

"Do you want it to be yours?" Jareth asked innocently and considerately. "It _would_ be a good place to spend the rest of eternity. I could always make arrangements. What is your preference, a glass coffin? Turned into stone?" -- a brief pause, then quietly -- "I imagine death would be peaceful."

A sliver of confusion pierced Luke for the first time. Had there been a note of wistfulness in the Goblin King's voice? Luke stared at the dark king, a creature of shadows and the deepest regions of his mind, and that confusion vanished as if it'd never been. Jareth stood there, strong and sure and arrogant. "Why don't you find out?" Luke answered. "Go ahead. You could just kill yourself. You'd be doing us all a big favor."

"It's not that easy."

"'What dreams may come must surely give us pause,' right?" Luke quoted nonchalantly. "I suppose if it were that easy, Hamlet would've done it. But then, we would never have known anything about him. No final battle against Claudius, no accidental poisoning of his mother, nothing."

"It's not that easy," Jareth repeated. "If I were held back only by the fears of dreams, I would have sought that long sleep lifetimes ago. There is nothing in dreams more terrible than anything I've already witnessed. Look at your own dreams. Look at where we now. Nothing but black emptiness, stretching on as far as the eye can see. How could I be afraid of that?"

"You'd be surprised how many people could be," Luke muttered, until something else Jareth had said caught his attention. "What do you mean, where we are now? What's so significant about this place? It's just a forest, isn't it?"

The Goblin King smiled a considering smile as he studied the other man. "It is a forest to you, because you make it so," he explained. "Others who've passed through may have seen something different. It might have been something horrible, or it might have been something marvelous. This forest reflects the depths of your imagination, which I must say I find sorely lacking."

"So if I just imagined that a path should appear suddenly, leading to your castle and free of all obstacles, it would appear?" Luke mocked.

"It's not as simple as _just imagining,_ as you so eloquently state," Jareth said. "True imagination is subject to your subconscious, ungovernable and illogical."

The same gesture of frustration, a hand that made a greater mess of already untidy hair. "If you're just here to mock me, you can just leave," Luke snapped impatiently, turning his back on the taller man as he examined the trees for something, anything, that might betray something beyond the shadows. "I'm rather busy. You should know."

"You chose to run the Labyrinth. If you recall, I tried to dissuade you," Jareth pointed out with all the smugness of a child saying _I-told-you-so _to its parents. "You can give up whenever you want."

"Sarah made it through. At age fifteen. That means it's beatable," Luke countered, turning around at last. "_You're_ beatable."

The Goblin King drew himself to full height, unfolding himself until he seemed to tower as tall as the trees. The world seemed to shrink around him, fading into the background as the dark unearthly king gathered himself, his presence crackling with power. His cloak was not the darkness, but a void that threatened to absorb the shadows and forest and everything it touched. Luke took a hasty step backwards.

"Little Sarah had a great deal more imagination than you ever will," Jareth breathed, and his voice was colder than the winter night. "Her will is far stronger than yours will ever be, and I will not be beaten by a boy who thinks himself equal to her."

"My will is strong enough to beat you," Luke replied. Yet his voice quavered, and his words sounded empty and boastful.

Jareth smiled, showing pointed teeth. It was a smile that reminded Luke of Big Bad Wolves that gobbled up little girls. How many little girls had this wolf devoured already? "But first you might fight your way to the castle beyond the Goblin City," the king reminded. "Then we shall see how strong your will is. And as you seem to have lost the first present I gave you, here is another one."

The crystal ball he threw to Luke turned out to be a ball of string, the thread as fine as a spider's web and as strong as moonlight, which nothing can sever. The end of it disappeared into the shadows of the forest, gleaming silver where it caught the light.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" he asked confusedly.

"Why, slay the Minotaur, of course," answered Jareth's voice. It echoed around the little clearing, but the speaker had disappeared. Only a white owl, that flapped its wings and flew high into the leaves and disappeared among the stars.

* * *

_Ma perciocchè giammai di questo fondo  
__Non tornò vivo alcun...._**

-- Dante, "The Inferno," The Divine Comedy

* * *

She found the door at the end of a long hallway. No candles lit at her approach, and as her feet disturbed the heavy dust that covered the floor, it swirled around her feet like dancing children. The door itself showed signs of decay, its rotting surface hidden under a patina of dust, the key in the hole rusted. Yet it turned under her hand, and the door creaked open on hinges that groaned with years of disuse.

She climbed the stairs that spiraled upwards. There were no torches, no candles, only the candle she had brought with her when she set off on her exploration. It cast a small circle of light around her, no more than a feet or two, and she did not know how high the stairs reached or how far she'd already climbed. As if she watched herself climb the stairs, Sarah thought distantly of Disney's _Sleeping Beauty._ She seemed pulled by the same hypnotic force that had gripped Rose, climbing stairs for no reason other than that they were there. On and on she climbed towards an unknown destination. It seemed that she climbed towards the stars.

And suddenly she reached the top. The stairs leveled into a landing, another hallway that opened suddenly into a room.

She had been in this room before.

It was a large room, and once it had been richly furnished. But like the stairwell and the hallway, it too showed signs of abandonment. The beams of its lofted ceiling were hung with cobwebs, trailing downwards in long wispy strands like gossamer curtains that graced the beds of sleeping princesses. Tapestries and paintings decorated the stone walls, smothered with the weight of a hundred years until they were unrecognizable, and dreams lay thick and heavy in the air around her, singing lullabies in whispered voices. But where once there had been a canopied bed, there was only a cradle of silk and ebony, a treasure chest at its foot. They were the only objects in the room untouched by time or decay.

And on top of the treasure chest, there was a little flower in a pot. It was a rose, its petals a dark blue as deep as the moonlit sky.

There was a portrait on the wall behind the cradle. Blue eyes gazed out through the dust, and she lifted a hand to brush away the grime, trying to unmask the mysterious subject of the portrait. The most she could reveal was long pale hair and sculpted cheekbones. Yet Sarah recognized the burning hunger in the blue eyes. She had found the missing portrait of Jareth she had not seen in the portrait gallery. Even rendered in oils and buried in dust, his eyes bore into hers, and she turned away uncomfortably.

Something caught her attention, a glimmer in the corner of her eyes. A large mirror, much like the mirror in her room, leaned against the distant wall, its surface smashed into a thousand fragments. Someone had painstakingly refitted the shards back together, save for one last piece. If she squinted and did funny things with her eyes, she could almost make out a pattern in the cracks, a picture maybe, or a word....

"How are you enjoying yourself?" There was only mild interest in that unmistakable voice.

Sarah whirled around, panic in her green eyes.

The Goblin King leaned in the doorway, his arms crossed in front of his chest. His blue eyes blazed with unadulterated anger. It rolled off him in waves, hot as dragons breath and equally malicious, an unseen force that petrified everyone and everything it touched. Sarah could not move under the malevolence of his fury.

"Well?" he asked, dropping his arms as he sauntered too casually into the room. His fingers trailed briefly against the surface of the treasure chest, along the rim the flowerpot, along the sides of the cradle. Each gesture seemed so careless, so bereft of the wrath that twisted his lips until she felt that she no longer recognized him. He was not the Jareth that had held her lovingly while she slept, nor was he the wicked Goblin King from her childhood, because in her sheltered childish innocence, she had never imagined such hostility, such vehemence, such vengefulness. His hand caressed the bonnet of the cradle. "I asked you a question, precious, precious Sarah. Are you enjoying yourself, playing by yourself in my room?"

She found her voice, a rough timid imitation of it at least. "Your room?" She turned around. "There's no bed. There's just... a cradle. This is a nursery, isn't it?"

"So it would seem."

Her panicking mind floundered, grasping at something -- anything -- other than the vengeful Goblin King. "How do you sleep if there's no bed?"

"I don't." He was in front of her now. This close to him, his fury was a scorching heat, and she closed her eyes against it. But he was not so merciful. "Look at me," he snarled, gripping her face tightly, without any of the tenderness he'd only recently displayed. She was forced to open her eyes. "I'm a creature of dreams. We don't sleep, and we don't dream, not when we haunt the dreams of mortals. What use would I have for a bed? So what you take for granted as a _nursery_ is in fact my room. High above the castle, in the tallest tower, where I quite clearly forbade you to enter. What should I do with you now? Shall I punish you?"

"I -- I-- I didn't..." she gasped.

He tilted his head, regarding her mockingly. "Didn't what?" he asked, fingers tightening painfully in her hair. She grabbed at his arms, and he released her face to grasp her wrists in hands as strong as steel. "Didn't know? Didn't care? You didn't _what_, Sarah? You didn't mean to? But then, you never mean to do anything. I told you, Sarah. _Consequences._ I cannot always be generous for you. I already gave you my heart to play with, was it not enough? Was it so paltry a toy that you had to intrude in my room for new things to play with?"

He forced against the wall, hard, knocking the breath out of her lungs. "What have you touched?" he demanded.

She shook her head. "N-n-no-nothing," she stammered.

"Nothing, nothing, tra la la?" he repeated quietly. He bent his head and pressed a kiss against her shoulder. "Sarah, precious, I don't believe you. Such an inquisitive girl as you...."

"Really!" she begged.

He bit down, hard, where he had kissed, and she hissed with the pain. "Don't lie to me, Sarah," he murmured against the wound. He lifted his head. "I've never lied to you, it would not be fair for you to lie to me."

There were tears in her eyes, yet she refused to cry. She'd forgotten how cruel he could be, because surely this was cruel, to be so kind one moment and so vindictive the next. It was cruel to taunt her like this, as if he had never said the things he'd said only a while ago. "I tried to brush the dirt off the painting, that's _all_!" she cried out. "Absolutely nothing else. I promise you. I swear, I swear to God, I'm telling you the truth."

"I care little for God," he said coldly. "But you swear you touched nothing?"

She shook her head, her dark hair falling in front of her face as she refused to look at him, refused to let him see the tears that could not be held back. "I swear," she replied in a small voice.

He let her go, and she fell to a heap on the floor, weak with terror and disappointed hopes and bitterness. She hated him in that moment. Most of all, she hated herself, hated herself for being so weak, hated herself for having believed that he wasn't the villain, that perhaps he was something else entirely, and hated herself for fallen in love with him.

The Goblin King knelt down on knee next to her and thrust his face close to hers as he hissed, "Now, get out. Get out of my castle."

* * *

Now that lilacs are in bloom  
She has a bowl of lilacs in her room  
And twists one in his fingers while she talks.  
"Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know  
What life is, you who hold it in your hands";  
(Slowly twisting the lilac stalks)

-- T.S. Eliot, "Portrait of a Lady"

* * *

* No one will know his name... and we will have to, alas, die, die!

** But since never from this abyss/ has anyone ever returned alive

**Author's Note:** Haha, so we have the truth of the matter. Sorry, everyone who assumed that they slept together in the previous chapter. Sex is fun and all, but foreplay is better.

Moral of the story? Thou shalt not take things for granted.

Sorry, I can't seem to keep off the Princess Turandot references. Much madness is divinest sense? Perhaps


	22. The Abandoned Children

**Disclaimer: **

Standard disclaimers apply.

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson, David Bowie, and its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

Find the hidden song/literature reference(s)!

**Insanity Fairy/Threatens and Adores - **I'll admit it. I purposely led you to believe it, just so that I could throw that "taking things for granted" line in everyone's face. Okay, maybe I wasn't that clever. Maybe I thought they did too, and then when I sat them down and lectured them about it, they told me that they hadn't yet. See, even I can be fooled!

As for anyone who got that rather blatant reference to _The Snow Queen _(cough**insanityfairy**cough), has anyone ever seen the Hallmark made for TV movie version, starring Bridget Fonda? It's positively the sweetest thing everrrrrrrrrr. I remember watching a cartoon version of it as a child, which was extremely faithful to the written word (but then again, I grew up in Denmark. They were bound by Danish laws or something to be extremely faithful to the written word of HCA). But that has nothing on the Hallmark version. Even though they took a rather free hand with the plot, I think it remained true to the _essence _of the story, and besides, quite often when they say "children" in those stories, those "children" are in their teens and quite capable of falling in love.

And Bridget Fonda made a wonderful (by wonderful, I mean terrifying and beautiful and relentless and cruel) Snow Queen.

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**Chapter 20  
The Abandoned Children**

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The roses that had bloomed around the castle had all wilted, scattering the landscape with their dead petals as black as dried blood.

"Get out," he told her. "Out of my castle. I don't care where you go. You can even go home if you want, if you can find the way, or perhaps you can run to the arms of your boy suitor. He should be almost here. Isn't that how the story goes?"

Sarah forced herself to calm down, to blink back the tears, to meet his eyes. Always unnerving with their unevenness, they scared her now with their dark fire. If ice could burn, they would look exactly like Jareth's eyes, chips of burning ice in a face as white and perfect as sculpted snow. How could anyone be so full of contradictions? To be both fire and ice at the same time, both cruel and kind. Villains in stories did not have that sort of depth. Neither did the heroes or heroines. "Yes, that's the way stories go," she said. "But this isn't a story." _Stories don't have villains like you._

Why did she think there was something very important about snow and ice?

Jareth laughed bitterly. "Oh? It isn't?" he mocked, bracing one hand on the wall beside her as he leaned ever closer, and she closed her eyes against the coldness of his breath. Cold...cold.... Even the wall against her back seemed as cold as ice. "Then what is this then? A dream? A nightmare? Because if it is, I would like to wake up, but I can't. So what is it, Sarah darling? _What_ sick twisted little creation of your mind are we in?"

_I'm in the wrong story,_ the woman sang.

No, no, no, this isn't a story, Sarah told herself. I'm old enough to realize that life is not a fairy story. Not all stepmothers are wicked, not all kings are the heroes. This isn't a fairy story.

_But that doesn't mean it isn't_ a story....

"It's life," she answered as evenly as she could. "This is life."

He slammed his fist into the wall, and she flinched involuntarily as he showered them both with fragments of stone and dust. "A pretty answer," he snarled. "But you're wrong. Of all the things this is, this is not life. This is only a cheap imitation of it and subject to the capricious whims and confines of stories and fantasies. _This is not life._"

And then he was kissing her desperately and hungrily, as if he could not help himself, as if he drank in Sarah herself, as if he would steal her soul from her very body. She was very still under that kiss, too frightened to respond to his vampiric passion, and she closed her eyes against the contact. "Life is something I can only dream about," he whispered against her lips, unable to detach himself from that warm softness. "It is something you have that I want. Your life, Sarah... such a precious treasure that you don't even understand. You make me hate you at times like this. You make me hate you for your cruel ignorance. Oh, why did you have to be so inquisitive, Sarah?"

He hauled her roughly to her feet, unheeding of the sound of ripped cloth. "This portrait that you're trying to uncover," he said conversationally, thrusting her forward by the shoulders, "is another portrait of my beautiful mother, whom you saw already in the portrait gallery."

"Your mother?" Even gripped in the fear of his anger, she couldn't quell her curiosity. His sudden divergence of thought confused her. "I thought it was a portrait of you...."

Sarah heard the smile in his voice, his cruel thin lipped smile that mocked her foolishness, yet his fingers tightened on her shoulders, bruising her. "We look very alike, don't we? I inherited her pale complexion eyes and her cheekbones. My beautiful mother...." He bent down, the soft strands of his hair tickling her neck and the breath of his taunting voice sending shivers down her spine. "But you have her eyes, for all their different color. The same shape, the same expression, the same cruelty."

Something stirred in her mind, puzzles pieces settling into place. "Do I remind you of your mother?" she asked quietly, knowing already what his answer would be.

He straightened, as if he couldn't abide the closeness to her anymore. The hands on her shoulders loosened, slightly. Perhaps he closed his eyes. Sarah could not see his face. "Yes."

"Why?"

A slight pause. "I beg pardon?"

She turned, and he did not stop her as she took a step backwards away from him so she could look into his face. "I asked you, why do I remind you of your mother? How am I like your mother," she repeated. More puzzle pieces fell. "You said you hated me, when you first met me. Do you hate your mother?"

The smile he gave her was bitter and tight. "You always were very perceptive," he said dryly, "especially of other people's affairs. Yes, I hated my mother," he answered with a voice as cold as the North Wind. "I hated her with a passion, just as I'd loved her with a passion. I'd adored my mother, and it made her betrayal all the harder to bear."

Sarah licked her lips, which were suddenly dry. "Betrayal?" she asked, turning her head to look at the painting. It was inscrutable as always, the face hidden except for the imperious eyes. She personally thought that Jareth was the spitting image of his mother, as much as she could see through the dust. He was the spitting image of the beautiful woman she'd seen in the portrait in the gallery. If all her humanity had been burned away until she was as cold and ethereal, she would look like Jareth.

"Oh, yes, my own dear mother betrayed me," he said. "Mothers can do that, you know. Your mother betrayed you. Just as you betrayed your own brother."

"_I would never hurt Toby_ -- " she protested, whirling to face him, and paused when he raised his eyebrow. Again, slowly and quietly. Firmly. "I would never hurt Toby."

"But you have wanted to hurt him before," Jareth reminded her. "Seven years ago, for one moment, you hated him very much. Is that not a betrayal of a sort?"

The memory was a lump in her throat. It was pang of guilt that seven years of sisterly devotion could not quite soothe. It was not so much as her childish hatred -- jealousy, rather -- of Toby, but the consequences of that uncontrolled emotion. Too spoiled and too immature to be kind, what had she done? She'd let herself become a monster. She'd wished him away.

"And your mother.... Your mother left you, didn't she? She left you for a life of glamour with another man, and yet you still continue to love her. I wonder how you can do that," the Goblin King murmured. "She grew tired of taking care of you, no matter what arguments you offer to the contrary. You are only a weekend obligation, a little pet she graces with her presence on special occasions. She didn't want you. How can you still love someone like that?"

And the secret wound of ten years split open.

"SHUT UP," she snarled, surprised by her own vehemence. Even in all her fights with Karen, she had never been this angry. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, shaking with the effort of restraint. She wanted to punch him. She'd never wanted to hit anyone ever before. "Shut up! Shut up! _Shut up!_ My mother is different, she's not suited to be a housewife. She wasn't meant for a life of obscurity! It was the life she didn't want. It wasn't me she didn't want. Don't you ever say that about my mother again, you arrogant jerk, you conceited son-of-a-bitch! Don't you dare say anything like that ever again, because I've heard it enough from my stepmother and my grandmother and all the people at school! Even the people who didn't say anything, I knew they were thinking it, oh, there's the girl whose mother abandoned her. My mother didn't abandon me, she didn't, she _didn't!_ So don't you dare say that to me again, _don't you dare ever say that to me again!_"

She stopped, panting for breath from her tirade. Stopped, because there was nothing else she could have done when faced with his eyes. _And in his eyes...._ Shut up, Christine Daaé, she thought acidly. But the words still crept into her mind, little droplets that sent out ripples over the still surface of the water.

_All the sadness of the world..._.

Ripples.... The words summoned other words, whispered so long ago and forgotten when she'd opened her eyes from the dream. Forgotten words that had haunted her even when she didn't know they haunted her.

_There's such a sad love deep in your eyes, a kind of pale jewel...._

And the sky stared back at her from his eyes as he considered her silently. It was not the look of a man who measured the worth of his enemy in order to defeat him. It was the look of someone who was presented with a conundrum, intriguing in its challenge. It was almost... sympathetic. It was haunting. She'd never seen that much sadness in one person.

His question took her by surprise.

"What do you remember, about your mother leaving?" he asked quietly, no trace of mockery or malice in his voice. He sincerely wished to know.

She blinked, her anger almost forgotten in her confusion. Almost. She turned away from him, studying the cracked wooden frame of the portrait with avid interest. "I came home one day from school, and she was gone," she said in hollow voice, a soulless recitation of facts. "It was just after my thirteenth birthday. Her clothes, her jewelry, her books. All she left was a note on the mirror of her vanity, saying 'I'm sorry. I can't do it anymore.' It was like she'd never lived in that house. We didn't see it coming. It wasn't as if she fought with Dad. They _never_ fought. People used to call them the perfect couple. We were the perfect family. It wasn't supposed to happen to us." She added wistfully, "I used to watch her dress for parties, wondering if I'd ever be as beautiful as her."

A momentarily silence as Jareth pondered the various answers to her statement, answers that he did not give her.

"Anyways, I fail to see how this matters," she said scathingly, glaring at him. "We were talking about your mother, not mine. Leaving home doesn't count as betrayal."

He shook his head, wisps of golden hair brushing against his cheeks. "No, but wishing away your child does," he said very, very quietly and solemnly. "Hating your child and wishing that your child never existed.... Well, that is probably the cruelest thing a parent could ever do."

It was very difficult to breathe. It was very difficult to stay standing. Where was the floor? It had fallen away, and she was standing on air, a split second from falling into the abyss that yawned at her feet. An awful ringing filled her ears, as if she was trapped inside a giant bell that had been struck and would not stop sounding its tremulous tone. She was the bell, she was calling out, she was shaking with the force of the blow. "My mother never did that," she said. She shook her head, trying to clear her ears of the awful ringing sound.

The Goblin King smiled, lips drawing back to reveal cruel pointed teeth. "Oh? She didn't?" he asked innocently and mockingly "Remember my little portrait gallery? All those portraits of beautiful men and women. There was one of you, remember? I can see you do. I've had it for ten years. Do you know why I have it?"

"Why?" she asked warily. She asked because he wanted her to ask, and because she wanted to know.

"Precious little Sarah, darling little Sarah," he murmured admiringly, laying one hand lovingly on her cheek. "Those are all portraits of the children who didn't have a Sarah to save them, of the men and women they would've become in time, if they had been able to grow up. Those are all portraits of children who were wished away."

His thumb caressed her lips, achingly tender.

"Just like you were wished away to me."

She slapped his hand away, infuriated by that possessive touch. "There's no portrait of Toby!" she declared. "There's no portrait of Toby, because I saved him! He will grow up. I did grow up! My mother must have fought for me, because I grew up!"

"Oh, she certainly negotiated," the Goblin King agreed. "But fight? She does not have your fortitude, she never did. She never entered my Labyrinth. But I was generous. I have always been generous with you. You were only twelve, too old and too young to interest me at the time. Ten years, a lifetime for you to grow up, seemed a very short time to wait."

She was so cold, so absolutely cold. The walls stretched on and on into the shadows, hidden under uncountable paintings of children that never grew up. It was a collection, a hoard, a trophy room. The walls were ice and snow, so cold that they stole the heat from her body, except it was her life they stole. But it had been stolen a long time ago.... "What happened to all the other children?" she asked in a shaking voice from numb lips. "Did you really...did you really turn into... g-gob-goblins?"

"Some," he replied, "if they were very naughty. The others.... Well, they are goblins, in a way. You see, they're all here, inside of me. They're all part of me, all the children that I took at their parents' bequests. I'm the collective soul of all the unwanted children."

Something inside of her snapped. Sarah shoved him away from her. "I don't believe you!" she shrieked, squeezing her eyes shut. The sight of him was nauseating. His very presence was nauseating. "You're lying, you're trying to trick me. You're _always_ trying to trick me! My mother loves me, she'd never do that to me!"

He grabbed her flailing wrists, stilling her useless attacks. "That's what I thought about my mother as well," he hissed with the vehemence of a lifetime, with the hatred of a thousand unwanted children. "My beautiful foolish mother, who wished away her child in a moment of blind fury." And he pulled her to him abruptly, crushing her against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her tightly. The anger and the hatred was gone from his voice, but the passion remained. "Just like you, my beautiful foolish Sarah. So I hated you when you were twelve years old, because your mother wanted you back, and I hated you even more when you were fifteen, because you made the same cruel mistake as your mother and mine. Imagine how much my hatred increased when you won your brother back! Why didn't my mother fight for me? Why didn't she reclaim me?"

Sarah fought him, but he refused to let her go. He would never let her go. He was too strong, and as he told her seven years ago, she was no match for him. He was all around her, all over her, inside of her, and she was too tired to fight anymore, too tired to do anything but cry. She cried for a mistake made ten years ago by the woman she loved the most and idolized, the woman she still trusted stubbornly despite the dictates of reason to the contrary. She cried with the frustration of betrayal and disappointment. She cried for a life that was no longer her own.

He let her cry, stroking her hair as he cradled her quaking body, murmuring words she did not hear.

--------------------------------------------------

And now we're grown up orphans that never knew their names  
We don't belong to no one, that's a shame  
But if you could hide beside me  
Maybe for a while

And I won't tell no one your name

-- Goo Goo Dolls, "Name"

--------------------------------------------------

"How did it happen?" she asked quietly, when there were no more tears left. She sniffed, looking for all the world like a child again. "Wh- When did she... Wh-Wh--"

"Why did she do it?" he filled in for her, pulling something white out of the air. Sarah nodded mutely, eying at the handkerchief he gave her skeptically. With all the lace and eyelets, it was more like a floppy slice of Swiss cheese than a piece of cloth. Still, it was better than wiping her nose on her sleeve. "Women like Linda Williams, as you said, are not meant for obscurity. She was used to being adored and pampered, and you must admit, twelve years with you could drive even a saint to madness."

"Hey!" She glared at him, though there was not much malice in the look. She felt so hollow, empty, drained and bereft of all emotions.

"Well, maybe not. I don't know any saints, and no saint will know me," he amended amusedly, brushing away stray tears with a leather fingertip. "But you certainly try my patience. I have all the time in the world, I can afford to be patient, and you still manage to infuriate me with your contrariness and obstinacy and your complete refusal to listen. Linda never stood a chance. And she snapped one day. She pushed off the stairs." He felt the girl in his arms go still, very still. "I brought you back to life."

Sarah twisted the handkerchief between her fingers. Karen had said much the same thing to her on more than one occasion. "It's very hard, knowing that your mother didn't want you," she whispered, sitting down on the floor under the painting. She rested her forehead on her knees, like she used to when she hyperventilated from panic attacks during thunderstorms. "Mothers are supposed to love you unconditionally."

"Yes," he agreed. She felt him sit down next to her.

"Does it get any easier?" she asked, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Does it ever stop hurting?" She was so tired, so very tired....

"No," he said after a pause. An arm encircled her, pulling her closer to him, and she let him. So tired, so tired of fighting, and for what? She couldn't remember anymore.... "Not even a thousand years, two thousand years, or four. I have hated my mother for six thousand years."

Sarah closed her eyes. "Six thousand years is a very long time to hate...."

"It is," he said quietly.

"What happens now?" she asked calmly, lulled by the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. So tired... she could barely stay awake....

Jareth rested his chin upon her hair. "We let the story play itself out."

--------------------------------------------------

"Why did you want to see me? Oh, mad Christine, who wanted to see me!...When my own father never saw me and when my mother, so as not to see me, made me a present of my first mask!"

-- Gaston Leroux, _The Phantom of the Opera_

--------------------------------------------------

In the end, he followed the path of the thread into the forest. Like Theseus who fled the Labyrinth before him, his fingers felt along the invisible line as it guided him through the trees and darkness. But unlike Theseus, his Ariadne was not a beautiful priestess hoping to save him certain death. He could not see where he walked, could not know if Jareth was leading him backwards to the beginning or into the mouth of danger.

The light began to dapple the leaves again, and he emerged blinking into the grey dawn. He stood on a bluff that marked the edge of the forest. Below him, a lake glimmered sleepily, its waters lapping gently against the shore. Beyond that lay the castle, silver and white and blood red in the fading moonlight.

What was he supposed to do?

_Why, slay the Minotaur of course_, echoed Jareth's mocking voice.

And Luke wondered what game the Goblin King played.

--------------------------------------------------

*

Author's Notes: I couldn't help myself again. Another revision to chapter 5 "Wanting." Not a big change, but it ties in some of the loose threads. Just another _Vanilla Sky_ reference, as Jareth looks at the pictures on Sarah's apartment walls and tells her that he likes her life, and she responds that it's hers and he can't have it.

To those who are wondering why she's still in the castle after he told her to get out.... From personal experience, people tend to shout things they don't really mean when they're angry. This applies to threats in particular. Let's just say that in that moment, Jareth didn't want to have to look at Sarah or be anywhere near her. Then he thought, why choose such a simple route? Why chase her away when I can hurt her? And then... well, it kind of escape his control. Tempers can do that. That's why it's important not to lose your temper!

Revision alerts aside.... ZOMFG, THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER!

On a slightly related note, has anyone else out there read _The Book of Lost Things_? I just realized how similar it is to _Labyrinth_! Boy battles his way through fantasy world ruled by his imagination towards the castle, and a magical creature (but not as smexy as Bowie) urges him to give up his baby brother that he hates anyways. It's like... _Labyrinth_, but with a male protagonist instead, so no smexy seduction scene, unfortunately. =/


	23. Story of a Mother III

**Disclaimer: **

Standard disclaimers apply.

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson, David Bowie, and its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

Find the hidden song/literature reference(s)!

**CarrieCullen** - I forgot to mention earlier thanks for going back and reading the revisions. Further thanks for liking the revisions! But I'm not sure Sarah actually "admitted" anything. It's more like... if someone's been wanting you so persistently, your defenses can only hold up for so long as well. Or perhaps I assume everyone is as flippant about boys as I am. XD Shhhhhhh.

**Saruwarui **- THANKS. I do work really hard on this story. If only I worked this hard at anything else that might actually make me some money.... But those things don't involve Bowie or his incarnation as Jareth, so what's the point? 8D

**Bespoken** - Sorry I kept you up? XD But I'm very glad you like the story. It's very affirming to know that I can keep someone up all night.

**Jareth's True Queen **- By the way, you probably don't realize it, but you hold a rather important clue to the ending of the story. Just... think about all the things you've pointed out to me recently and put the puzzle pieces together! But then again, I'm aiming to shock everyone, so I'll be disappointed in myself if you _do_ manage to fit the pieces together!

**S.R. Devaste** - _You got my Sondheim reference, good for you!_ He's actually been present throughout the entire writing process, although the bits I wanted to use initially didn't quite fit after the story took a life of its own. But then again, that was the whole point of _Into the Woods_, wasn't it? I'm really impressed that you seem to pick up a lot of the musical/operatic references I make. We need more people like us in the world!

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**Chapter 21**

**The Story of a Mother (III)**

Once upon a time, a mother wished away her child.

She was a handsome woman, with hair as pale as starlight, skin as white as snow, and eyes as deep as the ocean depths. Under the blue light of the moon, she could have been carved of marble. Men called her the Snow Queen, for her beauty was the kind that froze hearts and stole breaths, aloof in its perfection, and she was married to a king whose land straddled the boundary between worlds, and magic often leaked through. Around her neck she wore a collar of diamonds as cold and brilliant as snow and ice and starlight, and she wore raiments of white trimmed with fur at the collar and cuffs. She was as beautiful as winter itself, and just as cold and unfeeling.

So sayeth those who have never felt the fury of a blizzard.

She bore a son, a quiet and pale thing with the eyes of the Devil. So claimed the superstitious and the ignorant. Yet one cannot deny that his eyes were strange and frightening. They were as pale as chips of ice, and unevenly sized. Perhaps the idle gossipers would have forgiven him if his eyes were of two different colors. But they could not forgive him for his left eye, for the pupil of that eye was larger than the other. It may have been an eye of black, ringed with pale blue fire, and it seemed to look through the world and espy all its secrets.

The winter of the princeling's birth also brought the first whispers of goblins. The rumors began in the north and spread south, of strange creatures that might have been men in another life. The creatures haunted the deep forests and caused mischief among the outlying villages. They were nasty little tricks, as children might devise, without any intention of cruelty. The milk curdled overnight. Cows gave birth to calves with two heads, and the chickens suddenly grew black feathers and stopped laying. Malicious little tricks that harmed no one...yet.

But the superstitious and the fearful also whispered that the prince's birth had brought the presence of the goblins, for his strange blue eyes saw beyond this world. They whispered that the prince was a goblin himself, disguised as a human child. Some theorized that the goblins had stolen the real prince from his cradle and left behind a goblin child. Others speculated on the queen's unfaithfulness. She was so beautiful, perhaps too beautiful to be human -- she must be a fey creature who had enthralled the king so that she might bear a goblin son to inherit the throne. Perhaps the prince was not even of the king's own blood. From there on, the rumors grew and mutated, taking a life of its own until they seemed like truth, and the king's heart grew heavy when he gazed upon his wife and child.

It was inevitable that his love would wane under the crushing weight of such rumors.

So one day the king's eyes turned to other forms of beauty, and the queen knew she had lost him. That night, she sat by the side of her son, who was thirteen months old, and as she rocked the cradle with a white hand, she spoke to him. "What manner of creature are you? What monster have I given birth to?"

But the prince could not reply. He was too young for words.

"Are you a goblin, like they say you are?" the queen demanded in a voice that quivered with anger and despair. "They say your birth brought the goblins into this world, that you are a goblin yourself. They say that you are the prince of goblins. Well, if that's true, the goblins can take back their own. I wish the goblins would come and take you away right now! Perhaps then they too would disappear from this world!"

As she said those words, the howling wind tore open the shutters of the window in a flurry of snow and blew out the oil lamps that lit the room. The queen rose from her seat and closed the window against the cold. When she relit the lamps, she realized that the child was gone from the cradle; and cold fear penetrated her heart. She rushed from the castle, calling for her son.

Out in the snow, she met a woman as dark as she was pale in garments of black, who said to her, "You foolish woman. Do you not know that words take on a life of their own, so close the boundaries between the worlds? Your wish was heard by the goblins, and they have taken your child."

The poor mother wrung her white hands, and her face became a whiter shade of pale. "Do you know where they have gone?" she asked the old woman. "Tell me where they have gone, and I will follow them!"

"Yes, I know where they have gone, for my eyes are everywhere," the old woman said. "But in return, you must sing me the lullabies you sing to your son. You sing them with such love, and I have seen your tears when you sang to him, for I am Mother Night."

"Gladly! I will sing them to you gladly once I have found my son, please, where have they taken him?" the mother begged.

But Mother Night remained silent and still, and the queen was forced to sing the many lullabies she sang to her song. She wept while she sang, tears that froze upon her white lashes and became glittering diamonds. At last, Mother Night said to her, "Travel to the Northern Forest, where the walls between this world and the Underground grows thin."

But the forest was full of thorns, their branches dead and black. The brambles bore neither leaf nor flower, for it was the cold winter time, and icicles hung on the branches. They tore at the fur trimmed garments of the queen, ripping them from her white shoulders. Unsatisfied with that, they scratched at her pale skin until she began to bleed, great drops of blood that became red roses when they fell upon the black branches, and only then did the thorns part before her and admit her into the Underground world.

Presently, she came to a lake. At the center of the lake was a castle. Yet there was no way over the lake, no boat or ship or bridge to span its waters, and the waters were cold but not frozen. The mother thought perhaps she might drink the lake dry and walk across its bed, but the water was so cold it burned her throat.

"This will never work," said the lake. "But let us make another agreement. I love to collect pearls, and your eyes are the purest I have ever seen. If you will weep those eyes away in tears into my waters, I will carry you to the castle, where the goblins have taken your child. But more than that, I cannot do. You might find your child yourself."

"Of course!" the mother exclaimed as the tears ran down her cheeks. "I would give you anything, if I can find my son again." And as she still continued to weep, her eyes fell into the depths of the lake, and became two costly pearls. When she stepped onto the surface of the lake, it had become a layer of ice that bore her weight easily and faithfully to the castle.

In the castle was Death. He sat in the middle of a lush garden, surrounded by flowers and trees and plants that grew in profusion. Blooming hyacinths, under glass bells, and peonies, like strong trees. There grew water-plants, some quite fresh, and others looking sickly, which had water-snakes twining round them, and black crabs clinging to their stems. There stood noble palm-trees, oaks, and plantains, and beneath them bloomed thyme and parsley. Some large trees had been planted in little pots, so that they were cramped for room, and seemed about to burst the pot to pieces; while many weak little flowers were growing in rich soil, with moss all around them, carefully tended and cared for. But the woman did not see any of this, for she had given her eyes to the lake.

"How have you come here?" he asked. "You are a mortal woman. You have no place in this world. How have you managed to come here?"

"I am a mother," she said simply. "The goblins have taken my son, and I have come to take him back. Please, where is he?"

"You wished him gone," Death reminded her grimly. "You said the words and gave them life. You cannot take them back."

The queen unclasped the collar of diamonds from her neck and held out them out to the shadowy figure. They glittered like starlight in her white hands. "Please, give me back my son," she pleaded. "I will give you my beautiful necklace. I will give you anything you ask, if you will give me back my son."

Death said, "In this garden, each tree and flower has a name; each represents a human life, and belong to men still living in all parts of the world. If you can find your son among these flowers before the sun rises, I will let you take him back to the living world. But if not, you must resign yourself to your loss. I have given you a chance to reclaim him. I can do no more."

And so the mother walked blindly through the beautiful garden, listening to the heartbeats of the lilies and the snowdrops and the lilacs and the marigolds. She bent her silver head to the daffodils and the forget-me-nots and the violets and listened the rhythm of the heartbeats. Finally, she thought she discerned the fluttering heart of her son among the roses, and she grabbed the flower eagerly before Death could stop her.

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Thirteen years later, a man with hair as pale as starlight, skin as white as snow, and eyes as clear as ice came to the land. Under the blue light of the moon, he could have been carved of marble. His cloak was woven from the midnight sky, and he brought with him a blizzard of snow and ice. His eyes pronounced him to be a Fey creature, for they seemed to see through the world and espy all its secrets. They seemed to see into the hearts of men.

He strode into the hall of the king, throwing wide the heavy doors without a touch, and swept his gaze through the courtiers that had gathered within the stone walls. They fell back from the force of his blue eyes, fearful of what such strange eyes could see. They were right to fear, for in that sweeping gaze, he'd seen through them and had witnessed the petty ignorance of their hearts. In that sweeping gaze, he had measured them and had found them wanting. When he spoke, they heard the howling of the winds in his voice.

"I seek the Snow Queen."

A murmur filled the hall, loud as thunder as the courtiers looked upon the cold man's features and remembered another face that had been similar. It was the king who answered the man of ice and snow. He sat on his throne, and a pretty young girl with hair the color of fire sat next to him where the queen might have once sat. "She is gone," he declared. "She left these halls thirteen years ago, along with her foul offspring. You would do better to seek her elsewhere."

The pale man contemplated the king silently and began to smile. It was a smile with no mirth or good intentions. "And you would do well to take care of your own, lest it be lost," he replied. "That which you love the most will be stolen from you. Take heed."

And bowing low to the king, he swept from the hall, his cloak fluttering in the icy wind of the blizzard that blew into the hall. The coldness seemed the penetrate into the bones of everyone who'd gathered there, piercing their hearts with something that resembled fear. This time, it was not the fear associated with superstition, that set tongues wagging as they proportioned blame onto babies with no words to defend themselves. It was the icy touch of a fear that could not be put into words, a wordless terror that gripped their hearts and never let go.

The new queen with flame-colored hair gave birth to a son, with golden hair as bright as sunlight. Thirteen days after his birth, he disappeared without a trace.

No one saw the pale blond man again. Yet there were always whispers rumors of a man as beautiful as the winter, who brought bad luck with him wherever he went. The crops failed. The milk curdled overnight. Cows gave birth to calves with two heads, and the chickens suddenly grew black feathers and stopped laying. Malicious little tricks that harmed no one.

And wherever he went, children vanished.

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**Author's Notes:**

Yes, blatantly ripped from Hans Christian Andersen's version. But then again, why would I have made you all read his version if I wasn't going to do it? XD


	24. O Quam Te Memorem Virgo

Disclaimer:

Standard disclaimers apply.

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson, George Lucas, Brian Froud, as well as its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

Find the hidden song/literature reference(s)!

**Camcalli** -- I really enjoy our emails on the various _admirable qualities_ (most of them physiological) of David Bowie. Hey, I meant his cheekbones! According to my email, we have 70+ emails back and forth! Thank you for pointing me in the direction of "Strangers When We Meet." I shall also endeavor to watch that other video you recommended, even if I remain blushing for the rest of the day.

**Mirroreyes** -- Thank you for thinking my plot is awesome. While it may not hold a candle to the genius of authors such as KL Morgan or KnifeEdge (I know I'm missing a few here), I'm glad that it has its own small readership.

**J Luc Pitard **-- Yes, it _is sad_, isn't it? But Jareth only knows that his mother failed, he doesn't know the lengths through which she went before she failed. After encountering so many parents who gave up so soon, what conclusions could he have formed other than the one he has now?

**Bespoken** -- Well, "loud of thunder" is quite a common metaphor, but it does engender new meaning from "China Girl," doesn't it? Now, that's a song that I can't decide if it pleases me or offends me. My mistake probably was in watching the video. Being Chinese myself... well, while I may be flattered by his apparent admiration for my race, the heavy dose of Orientalism grates on me. Yet it's also in a rather self-deprecating tone, as if he's winking and saying, "yes, I know, we Brits get a bit silly over Chinese girls, don't we?" On a different note, I'm sure you can find a plot. If I can find one, why can't you?

**S.R. Devaste **-- Wow. I've always been a bit in awe of people who study voice, so kudos to you. Which blond boy are you referring to? But basically the gist of the last chapter is that Jareth came back 13 years afterwards only to discover his father has remarried. He then steals his half-brother away.

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Chapter 22

_O quam te memorem virgo…*_

The young girl was perched upon branch of the tree, dressed in a summer dress of white cotton and lace, like a sylvan nymph of the last days of summer, untouched and unsullied by human petty values and material desires. Her sparkling eyes were as green as the leaves draped around her, flecked with gold like the dappled sunlight that shone through the leaves. It drew out the mahogany gleam in her black hair, setting it on fire. Her dangling feet were bare, sandals forgotten by the base of the trunk. He had never seen anyone as beautiful as she looked in that moment.

"That's not fair!" Toby shouted from the grass.

"I'm older than you," Sarah called back with a laugh. "Karen will kill me if you fall off. Now just wait while I find the kite."

"Sarah!" he whined, but his sister was already climbing higher and higher, farther away from him, a white figure disappearing into the dark canopy of leaves. He could barely see her. "Sarah!"

A white barn owl swooped out of the tree, circling one, twice, thrice above the boy's head before landing on the same branch that Sarah Williams had vacated. Except it was a man, lounging in a robe trimmed with white feathers, moonlight glistening in his pale hair. The sky was dark, stars glittering like diamonds. The man smiled kindly and held out a crystal. It fell from his white gloved fingers and fell with a plop into the pond beneath him, rippling outwards until the gentle waves lapped against Toby's feet. The tree had vanished, the park had vanished -- he stood on the surface of a lake that stretched out into an invisible distance. Sarah had vanished. The man in white stood in front of him, tall and inscrutable. Then to Toby's surprise, he bent down on one knee to bring himself to the boy's eye level.

"Please," he said, simply and earnestly.

Mutely, Toby shook his head.

Something -- irritation, displeasure, anger --- flashed across the man's face, a fleeting hint of an internal temper tantrum, perhaps. He held out his hand again, another crystal dancing upon his knuckles before he caught it lightly between three fingers. A twist of the hand, and it became a gold coin. He flicked his hand again, and the coin became a green apple, a Granny Smith. Another flick, and it became a crystal again. It was an offering, a gift. It was payment.

"Please," the man repeated.

Toby reached out for the crystal, but he was too late, or the man too early, and it brushed against his fingertips as it fell down and shattered into pieces on the icy surface of the frozen water. He flung an arm up against the flurry of shards, as white and furious as a winter blizzard as it wiped the world white, and he realized that he was staring at the wall and the sun was already up.

--------------------------------------------------

The castle sat in the middle of the lake, a tall gothic structure buried in a mass of black thorns . It looked like Sleeping Beauty's castle, surrounded by four hundred meters of water on either side. There were no boats, nor a bridge that Luke could see, and the distance was too far to swim in his present state. Who knew what sleeping danger lurked beneath its calm surface, which shone as smooth as a mirror. It looked so solid that Luke wondered if it _was_ glass.

The sky was a pale icy blue now, glimmering white along the horizon. Dawn. How much time did he have left? Probably not long now. Luke rubbed his eyes tiredly, wondering how much longer he could stay awake before he found Sarah. He was dirty and tired and scarred, but he was so close to her now, could feel her presence within the castle just beyond the lake. She was waiting, she was waiting for him. She had been waiting for him for close to thirteen hours.

"How am I supposed to get to the castle?" he asked the air as he paced along the shore of the lake. "I'm too tired to swim, and there isn't a boat or a bridge. I can't give up now!"

"You could always make a bargain with me," the lake replied.

Luke jumped back in surprise. But the water remained still -- no, wait. There was a face in the water, there was a face fashioned out of water staring back at him out of the surface of the lake. It grinned with pale green lips at his shock. "Don't look so surprised, young man. One would think you haven't learned anything at all. So, what can you offer me for safe passage across my straits?"

"I don't know, what do you want?" Luke asked cautiously as he approached the water edge again hesitantly. "I don't have much on me, not of any value anyways. My watch? A ball of string that used to be a crystal ball?"

"You have one of Jareth's crystals?" the water asked. "I would have asked for your eyes, but they pale in comparison to the worth of that crystal. Give me the crystal, and I will carry you safely to the castle."

"It _was_ a crystal," he corrected as he dug in his pocket for the ball of string that had guided him out of the forest, "but it became a ball of stri--" His voice trailed off as his fingers touched a cold smooth surface, and he drew out the shining bauble. "String," he finished weakly. "How did it do that?"

The water laughed as merrily as any brook. "Magic," the lake said. "You don't know what manner of treasure you hold in your hand, do you? Perhaps you think it is merely a crystal ball. Perhaps you think it is an instrument of Jareth's malice. But it is raw magic that you hold in your hand, neither wicked or good in itself. It is magic that gives form to dreams, and what it does depends on the essence of your dreams. It is the stuff that holds this Labyrinth together. You could even say that the crystal is formed out of dreams."

"This makes dreams come true?" Luke asked, looking at the crystal with new eyes.

"I didn't say that," replied the face of the lake. "I said that the crystal is magic that gives form to dreams, but it doesn't make them come true. Will you give it to me? It is the price I name for safe passage."

His hand tightened around the sphere. But then he seemed to hear Jareth's laughter in the air, sharp and mocking, and his fingers loosened. It fell into the lake with a gentle plop, swallowed immediately by the surface that barely rippled. Where it fell, the water froze and became an icy bridge that led to the doors of the castle, glittering with all the colors of the rainbow. Luke tested it with a foot -- it seemed solid enough.

Something washed onto the shore then -- two pearls, dark and iridescent in the lavender light of dawn. "Will you give these to Jareth?" the lake asked. "They have been my prize for these six thousand years. But the crystal you've given me is a far greater gift by far, and so I return these pearls to him. They were his mother's."

"I'm not here to pay a social call on him, you know," Luke said quietly, even as he pocketed the pearls. "I'm here to find my friend and then leave."

"You won't be able to leave until you face him," the lake said. "That is the way it is, and it is the way you must do it."

How many stories and play gave credence to this trope? Too many, as he was wont to know. Even if he should find Sarah and find his way home, there would always be something between him and the Goblin King -- unfinished business, unresolved feelings, a score to settle. He refused to live in the shadow of a nightmare for the rest of his life. So yes, he must confront the Goblin King before he left. It was the way stories always played out. After all, what hero did not vanquish the villain? "Thank you," Luke said grimly, and he set off across the icy bridge towards the final confrontation.

The doors were carved from ebony, inlaid with strips of polished silver. The stone archway was invisible through the thorny mass that seemed to swallow the castle, brambles of creeping roses that sunk their talons into the stonework and refused to let go. They would have been beautiful, if their color had not reminded Luke so much of blood, as if they were the blood prints of past challengers who'd sought entry into the sleeping castle and were swallowed by the thicket for their daring. No, not blood... they were hearts. They were the hearts of all the men who'd ever fallen in love with the sleeping princess.

The doors flew open at the his touch, swinging on silent hinges. The dark hall yawned, waiting, anticipating, beckoning.

"Well, I guess there's no turning back," Luke muttered. _There had never been the possibility of turning back._

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_Ma il mio mistero è chiuso in me; _

_il nome mio nessun saprà! _

_No, No! Sulla tua bocca lo dirò quando la luce splenderà!_**

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She dreamt that she wandered a palace built of ice and snow again. The walls were cold, colder than death, distorted by bending light shafts piercing through the ice. Again, she had that sense of urgency, that she was searching for something, someone.

She found him in the last room, a great antechamber where the floor shone as brightly as a broken mirror. The boy with golden hair sat in the center of room as he had the last time, his blue fingers arranging the pieces of ice desperately. Except this time he was older, a teenager not much older than she had been when she first discovered magic was real. The cheekbones that would be his defining feature had begun to emerge. The shadows around the eyes were already there, depths created by sadness and anger and wanting, emotions she'd never identified until now.

"Do you know," he said calmly, never taking his eyes off his task, "that I've spelled out thousands of words upon this mirror? All the words in the world, all the words that have been forgotten, and some words that have yet to be conceived."

Sarah knelt next to him and put her arms around his shoulders. He was cold to the touch, as if she held a living statue. "It's so cold here," she whispered. "You're going to freeze to death!"

"I don't feel the cold," he answered. It seemed true enough. He neither shivered or clenched his muscles against the deadly cold that she felt. Yet she could also see that the cold was killing him, turning his skin blue with their hungry embrace. "'The winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow.' As for death, well, it only comes to those who are living, and I am neither living nor dead."

Is it like this

In death's other kingdom

Waking alone....

"Come back with me. Come back to me," she begged.

His fist slammed into the mirror, scattering the pieces he's assembled painstakingly. They cut his hand, lacerating the skin with faint red lines that disappeared immediately. They frightened her. "I can't," he told her calmly, despite the gesture of violence he'd shown. His calmness was a numbness of emotion. "I would deny you nothing, but I can't come with you. Ask me anything else but this."

"Why can't you?" she demanded, laying her cheek upon the curve of his back.

"I'm not allowed," he answered succinctly, slowly rearranging the shards he'd displaced. "And you shouldn't be here, Sarah. Go."

At his command, she opened her eyes. The world was grey, the eerie faded grey of morning. In this light, she could almost see the dreams that lingered in the air, phantasmagorical shapes formed of smoke and shadows. Even the boots in front of her, beautiful polished boots of black leather, seemed ghostly. She was half-lying, half-stting on a dusty stone floor, her head pillowed against someone's chest. She felt the silky caress of finely woven cambric beneath her cheek, swelling with his even breathes. If she listened closer... she could almost imagine a heartbeat of a heart that wasn't there. One poet sleeved arm held her close to him, possessively, tenderly. In that moment, she knew without a doubt.

Sarah lingered in his embrace, breathing in the wild scent of him before she spoke. "Jareth."

He was still, so still beneath her. "Say it again," he whispered at last.

Sitting up from his embrace, she turned to face him. He was pale, paler than usual, and his eyes were closed, nostrils flaring from the effort of restraint. Restraint from what? The urge to flee? The urge to grab her? It didn't matter. "Jareth," she repeated.

He smiled then, a weak smile. Yet it was a smile, untainted by his usual mockery or arrogance. "When you say it, I almost believe that it _is_ my name," he sighed, laying his hand on her cheek. "Your voice makes it true."

His words made her heart ache. He had always made her ache, a truth she'd never admitted to herself. Seven years ago, she had written it off as fear and awe. What did she know then, at the young age of fifteen, of the complex bonds between them? What had the book said, what she had quoted carelessly to Toby? _What no one knew was that the king of goblins had fallen in love with the girl...._ She had dismissed them as only pretty words from a story, thinking herself so mature. She had been so eager to grow up. Even now she was only mature enough to realize her innocence, enough to understand that the ache in her heart was not fear, had never been fear. Jareth made her ache with his beauty and his power and his confidence, and he made her ache now with his constancy.

"It's morning," she said, and kissed him delicately. He responded in kind, his lips painfully tender against hers, soft as a summer breeze, and his hand trembling with the restraint it cost him not to possess her more fully. There was only -- love! -- in that caress, and the gentleness of his kiss took her breath away. She pulled away from the kiss unwillingly.

"Jareth, are you under a spell?" she whispered.

He tensed at her words, muscles drawn taut as bowstrings as he opened his eyes at last. Veiled by his lashes, they scrutinized her with an unreadable expression. "Always so perceptive," he murmured, dropping his hand from her face. "My precious little Sarah."

"What would it take to free you?"

"Oh, I don't think you'll like the answer to that question," he answered, rising to his feet. He brushed the dreams and years from his sleeves as he moved towards the cradle. His cradle, the cradle he'd been stolen from. "Besides, I have searched six thousand years for my release. What makes you think you would be able to free me, when I failed?"

"The answer is your name, isn't it?" she pressed, climbing to her feet too.

He turned, blue eyes flashing dangerously. "What, do you think you will be able to find it, when I have searched high and low for six thousand years?" he demanded. "A tiny mortal creature, so young, so weak? What makes you think, with your pitiful twenty some years of life, that you will find something that I have never found? You think that you have beaten me once, you are capable of tasks I am not? How proud you are!"

Sarah bit her lip.

"No, my dear, I am quite resigned to my fate," he said. "After all, it's only forever, not quite as long as you'd think. No, it's not long at all, and you will forget me soon enough."

"No!" she cried, stumbling forward before she realized what she was doing, nearly tripping over her skirts. "I'd never do that!"

"Oh, yes, you will," he said, catching her by the shoulders when she fell. "You will wake from this dream, and they will cease to plague you. You will forget my name, and I will be resentful and bewildered and violent. But I will eventually be over you, and we will be strangers to each other again."

She thumped him on the chest angrily. "Don't say things like that!" she cried. "I won't do a thing like that. I'm here, aren't I? I'm right here, in front of you. Why would I do anything like that?"

"You've forgotten me once before," he reminded her quietly.

The stone walls threw his words back, and the dreams repeated them in hushed whispers until her ears rang with his accusation. Her fingers tightened on his shirt. "I was fifteen, what did I know then?" she protested. "Fifteen years old, and naive and stupid. Everything seemed so surreal, too magical for words, too magical to be real, so I convinced myself it was a dream. _But I know now it was real._ I know that you're real. Jareth, I... I... I think I love you!"

His fingers tightened on her shoulders, close to bruising, and she winced. But his grip did not lessen. He stared at her as though he'd never seen her before, his face a careful mask. Slowly, he relaxed his hold, releasing her shoulders to cup her face gently in his hands, and shook his head

"No, Sarah," he said. "You don't love me. You will forget me. Yes, you will, child, don't glare at me like that. You will forget me, because I want you to forget me. Now, Luke is waiting."

"I don't care about Luke," she muttered, sounding very much like a spoiled child again.

Jareth's lips quirked, too quickly for her to catch. "Now, we can't say about someone who's braved the Labyrinth just to rescue you," he chided. "Although truthfully, neither do I. I've never met a man with less imagination than he, but he is here nevertheless."

Letting go of her, he opened the treasure chest and drew out something. A length of red. It was her scarf, her red scarf that Toby had given her for Christmas one year. The same scarf Jareth had caught when the wind plucked it away.*** She had not realized she'd lost it. He draped it around her neck, his hands lingering by her heart as he adjusted its folds. "You left it among my roses," he said. "While I would happily keep it, your brother may not appreciate your losing it. Luke is waiting, and you cannot go home in these clothes. Go and change into your old clothes, and then come and find us."

His tone left no room for disobedience, and she stumbled away from him with tears in her eyes.

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I am moved by fancies that are curled

Around these images, and cling:

The notion of some infinitely gentle

Infinitely suffering thing.

-- T.S. Eliot, "Preludes"

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Jareth found the younger man in the portrait gallery, awe stricken by the beauty before him.

Thirteen hours in the Labyrinth had not been kind to him. His shirt was torn and bloodied, his pants soiled from his encounter with the Bog. He had bandaged his right arm inexpertly with strips of his own sleeve. The sleepless night had left its mark upon his eyes, shadowed and bruised from her journey. Strange to think how a young fifteen year-old girl had managed to to conquer the obstacles that had reduced a man in his prime to such a state. How often he'd pondered whether she had been extremely brave or simply incredibly stupid.

At the moment, the brown haired man's attention was fixated on the portrait of Sarah, arrayed like a princess. He noted the exquisite details of the silver flowers in her hair, the opalescent shading of her gown that was the color of the dawn and innocent dreams of maidens. He could not fail to see the delicate flush of her cheeks, the rosy sheen of her lips, the wide-eyed innocence of her green eyes. It confused him. It was not the portrait of an adversary. It suggested something else, something Luke didn't think he'd appreciate.

"It's a good likeness, isn't it? Isn't she beautiful? But it pales in comparison to the real thing. How she took my breath away!"

Luke turned at the sound of that voice, so arrogant and mocking, so distinctive, and his face steeled into antagonism. "Where is Sarah?" he demanded. "I swear, if you've done anything to her, if you've hurt her in any way, I'll --"

"You'll what?" Jareth asked skeptically. "You'll kill me? Here I stand, boy!"

There was little Luke could do besides glare at the Goblin King. He hated the pale man's arrogance, his confidence, his damned self assuredness, as if he knew a secret he wasn't sharing. "I may not kill you, but I will make you miserable somehow," he promised. "I will set fire to this entire mockery of a Labyrinth. I will blast your castle into oblivion. I will find a way, I swear to God, I will."

The Goblin King gave a shout of laughter, baring his teeth. "That's the spirit," he said appreciatively. "I could not hand Sarah over to anyone who did not display such devotion. Don't worry, she'll be here soon."

Something was wrong. Luke sensed it, a line, a word, a thought that didn't belong to the story. Or perhaps it was something that the stories omitted, never betraying to their readers, a secret that they undertook. There was something wrong, he sensed it, but he could not identify it. Sulkily, he turned away. "What happened to that one? Another portrait of Sarah, used for target practice?"

The charred frame was crumbling into pieces, the canvas little more than ashes. The blackened wall bore witness to a recent fire that had consumed the painting. Jareth shrugged noncommittally. "That was a portrait of my mother."

A moment of stunned silence. Jareth smiled condescendingly at the other man's shock. "Yes, I had a mother. How else do you imagine I came into being?" he asked. "She was very beautiful, as beautiful as winter, some men have said. I take after her, although I could never hope to match her in looks. I have another portrait of her, but unfortunately we don't have the time to visit it."

"Strange. As vain as you are, I don't see a portrait of you," Luke said at last, searching for another topic. He had assumed Jareth had simply popped into being. Perhaps he'd hauled himself out of that disgusting Bog and assumed human shape, or God had simply proclaimed that the Goblin King should exist and steal children. A mother...the thought was terrifying. "Portrait shy?"

"Oh, but there is," Jareth said. "Although you might not recognize me. I was very young at the time. Thirteen months old."

"None of these are portraits of babies," Luke commented. "God, you wouldn't happen to have a smoke on you, would you? No? Damn. So which one are you?"

Jareth studied his gloves, adjusting their fit before he answered. His voice was very quiet. "The last painting by the door, on your right."

The painting was huge and black, swallowing the wane light of the hall. A crying woman sat surrounded by flowers of all colors, her white hair streaming down her face like a waterfall, blending with her tears. She was pleading, pleading with the darkness, with the shadowing figure of Death that melted into the darkness behind the garden. "This one? Which one are you? You're not the woman, so you gotta be Death. How appropriate!" Luke pronounced. "That's what the stories say, isn't it? Like that poem, about the Elf King. The dad and the son riding, and the Elf King calls to the child, and the child's dead at the end of the poem."

"I am shadowed by him, but I am not Death," Jareth said. He had turned back to the portrait of Sarah, and all Luke could see was the king's back. Pale golden hair that glowed like a halo, bright against the dark material of his frock coat that glittered like the starry night, boots polished to mirror brightness, he was every bit the dark king from a fantasy story. "Look closer."

Luke turned back to the portrait, squinting to make out a third figure. Nothing. There was the pleading woman amongst the flowers, and the dark presence of Death, who held a flower in his hand instead of a scythe. "I don't see anyone else," Luke muttered.

"You wouldn't," Jareth said quietly. His voice was right behind the director, and the director jumped. "Very few people have read the right stories. As I said, you would not have recognized me."

He held out a peach, the most perfect peach Luke had ever seen. It filled the room with an aroma that recalled the sunlit days of Luke's youth, and the young man started to reach for it before he stopped himself. "I don't trust you," he said.

The Goblin King laughed. "You shouldn't. But before you see Sarah, there's one more task to complete. Don't worry, I haven't poisoned it. You're worth nothing to me dead."

Luke reached for the peach warily. It was perfect, ripened and the color of summer. It felt like a normal peach, smelled like a normal peach, though its fragrance was so strong and sweet he could almost taste it. "So, what's this last task?" he asked, sniffing the fruit suspiciously. It even smelled like summer. Starving and beguiled by the sweet fragrance, he bit into the peach.

The last thing he heard was the Goblin King's voice. "To wake up."

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Author's Notes:

* _O quam te memorem virgo_ -- How shall I call you, virgin. No, I am not saying Jareth is a virgin. You may want to google this phrase, just for added dimension.

** But my secret is hidden within me; none will know my name! No, no! On your mouth I will say it when the light shines! (Puccini, "Nessun Dorma," _Turandot_) le gasp, MORE PUCCINI.

*** One of the many revisions I made, in Chapter 5 "Wanting."

_Phantasmagorical_ is probably one of my absolute favorite words of all


	25. Goodnight, Goodnight

Disclaimer:

Standard disclaimers apply.

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson, George Lucas, Brian Froud, as well as its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

Find the hidden song/literature reference(s)!

**ZOMFG, everyone's starting to catch on! **I know general consensus is that no one likes Luke. We're not supposed to like him, because he's boring. But he still has his role to play. (You should also note that I think Raoul from _Phantom of the Opera_ is boring too.)

**S.R. Devaste** -- Sorry for the emotional whiplash, although that's an amazing compliment, to think that I can evoke such feelings from you.

**Shadow-D'hampyr** - Thank you, for your incredibly long and detailed review. It is rather daunting to imagine that someone out at sea reads this, braving terrors such as injured finger and unstable wireless signal. Your description "aquatic residence" struck me very much. I was inclined to think you live in a submarine, perhaps a yellow one, twenty leagues under the sea at first! I'm extremely honored that you find my variation of Jareth unique, especially since I strongly suspect my own portrayal to be out of character. Your critique on descriptive phrases has been felt and shall be taken into account immediately. I can only say that the repetition may be a result of 1) looking at him through Sarah's eyes and 2) that is simply how I see him. But the fault still remains mine. I hope your finger mends soon and that you will find the impending conclusion of the story (at best, another two or three chapters) to your satisfaction. I also venture to hypothesize you are a _Vampire Hunter D_ fan.

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Chapter 23

Goodnight, Goodnight

_And I dreamt that one of that noble host  
came forth my hand to claim  
But I also dreamt which charmed me most  
That you loved me still the same...._

-- "Marble Halls," _The Bohemian Girl_¹

Her old clothes, the clothes she had worn the night she was -- kidnapped? Taken? -- were laid out for her, clean and freshly pressed. Her boots sat by the bed forlornly. She them on with shaking hands, fingers that refused to negotiate buttons, legs that manage to entangle themselves in the trousers. Her clothes were alien to her, even though she had only last worn them what? Thirteen days ago? They seemed a lifetime long, and the clothes were remnants of a life she barely remembered, relics of another reality she had forgotten. When the buttons snapped out of her fingers again, she gave a frustrated strangled scream and ripped the sheets from the bed before sliding down one elegantly carved poster into a puddle on the floor.

She was going home....

Sarah laughed at the thought. Wasn't that precisely what she'd wanted? She'd come to the castle, asking to go home. She was going home.

Then why did it feel like banishment?

How ironic that now she didn't want to leave. She didn't belong in this cold, deserted castle. She belonged Aboveground, with her friends and her family, with Merlin, and with Toby. She'd fought for Toby, she'd made sacrifices for him, and she loved him fiercely with the force of her victory.

_What about your friends here?_ asked a voice inside. _Are they any less your friends because they're not... human?_

_What about Jareth?_

Sarah gave a sob, burying her face in the mass of fabric she clutched. Oh, yes, the beautiful and terrible Goblin King! Beautiful and cold and cruel, infinitely cruel. She had told him she loved him, and what had he done? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He'd given no impassioned declaration of mutual feelings, nor had he even accepted her blurted confession, torn from her in confusion and desperation. Perhaps he had been shocked by her words, amused that someone as young as her could be brazen enough to presume that he might love her back.

God, she felt like an idiot.

"I can't forget just because you want me to," she told the silence, words she only dared to say when he wasn't there to hear. "You wanted to break me, you've broken me. I am completely undone by you, and you tell me that I don't love you, I will forget you. You are such an arrogant jerk! I didn't want this either, I don't want you! I don't want you! _I don't want you!_"

Her violence was a rain of tears upon the displaced bed sheets, darkly wet drops that illuminated the embossed patterns briefly.

The ringing clatter of metal woke her from her misery. She flung up her head like a skittish colt, angry at herself for the faint spark of hope that died only too quickly when she realized she was alone. Still alone.... It was then she noticed the peach at her feet.

Such an innocent thing at first glance, golden as sunlight and flushed delicately pink as a maiden's blush. Its fragrance was overwhelming, conjuring memories of a child that laughed and climbed trees. It was a halcyon sphere of summer, promising joy and life to whomever tasted its golden flesh. It whispered to her of fulfillment -- not the consummation of dark desires, as literature wrote of apples and pomegranates, but the simple delight of children who witness miracles adults no longer could. Even knowing the dangers, she couldn't resist the temptation. Eve had forfeited Paradise for less. Even Persephone had been moved for less emotion than the passions that warred inside Sarah's heart.

She bit into the peach, feeling the juices dribble down her chin. Sweetness blossomed on her tongue, as brilliant and warm as the scent had promised. It tasted of sunlight and wind and life and...dreams.... It tasted like Jareth's kiss.

The peach fell from her limp hand.

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Abandon heart and let the dream descend

-- "Point of No Return," _Phantom of the Opera_

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The masquerade was a dizzying spectacle of opulence. Red velvet curtains hung with golden tassels lined small arched doorways leading to a hallway encompassing the ballroom, a circle within a circle, and framed a grand staircase that diverged into a balcony lining the ballroom. A thirteen hour grandfather clock stood by the staircase, overseeing the festivities like a Master of Ceremonies. Crystal chandeliers washed the room in a golden glow, glittering off the jewels at the throats of voluptuous women, bared by flimsy dresses that stayed up on the sheer strength of modesty alone. Their gloves were long, and their hair coifed high and elaborately. Men were no less modest, silken shirts cut low to reveal muscled torsos, feathers trimming their masks and capes. Dancers whirled past him to the frenzied beat of a exotic song, fluttering fabrics brushing against his face as he negotiated his way through the drunken mad crowd. He recognized no one. Everyone wore a mask, mockeries of human faces and animals and even... goblins. Everyone was pretending to be someone or something else.

What Luke did not see was the decay beneath the glittery surface. The curtains were worn and faded, threadbare in many places, and the paint was chipping off the golden banisters, revealing the wood beneath. Stalactites of wax dripped off ornate candelabra along the walls, which were black from years of fire and soot. Everything was beautiful to behold, and nothing else. Smoke and mirrors. Like a stage play, the surface of the ball glittered brightly as gold, transformed from a dilapidation by the magic of belief alone. Even the dancers prowled with lethargic grace, weary from centuries of dancing without end, actors in the pretense.

A thirteen hour grandfather clock stood by the staircase, overseeing the festivities like a Master of Ceremonies. The time was a quarter past eleven.

He caught his reflection in a mirror, one of many that lined the walls from under curtains of red, reflecting images upon images until the room seemed ten times its size and filled with thousands of dancers. He was dressed like a matador, gold brocade trimmings down his chest. The lining of his cape was as red as blood, bright against the austere black uniform. Behind him, the dancing throng was a faceless blur. A satyr leered at him, and when he jumped, it laughed at him before disappearing back into the crowd.

Eyes peered at the young man from behind their paper faces, and what they saw amused them, for many lips curved in malicious smiles. He took no heed of them, searching through the sea of smiles for a particular smile. A woman flicked her fan at him, teasing him with its feathered end. He smiled nervously, turning away. He was seeking someone else.

A glimpse of silver, bright against the red washed crowd, turned his head. Someone had just entered, poised at the dais of the stairs. She wore a crown of stars in her black hair that flowed loose down her back. Her shoulders were bare, adorned only by a simple collar of tears. Her dress was the color of lost dreams, opalescent and as radiant as the stars, for such dreams are the most beautiful and the most bright. Luke could not have said what color it was, for it seemed to change under the flickering lights with her every move. Like a crystal prism that manifests light into visible arcs, her dress reflected the color of dreams. She outshone everyone else at the ball.

Luke moved towards her....

Sarah had dreamed of a ball like this one before. But then, the world had been silver and white, veiled by the pretense of virtue. In that dream, she had wandered through the crowd of depraved revelers, condemned to an eternity of this mockery of life, protected only by her innocence. She remembered the rapid thundering of her heart as she ventured defiantly into that forbidden adult world, cowed by the knowing looks from beneath the goblin masks of people playing at being goblins. She shouldn't have been there....

This ball was not so different.

Stepping onto the marble floor, she was accosted by a matador. "May I have this dance?" he asked. He was attractive in his youth, his cheeks round and rosy, contrasting with the fierceness of his costume. He bowed as he extended his hand for hers, a proper gentleman, no, a prince. It was in the rigid lines of his body, drilled in through years of discipline. It was difficult not to laugh his polite gallantry, and she curtseyed so he might not see her smile. After a few bars of music, he spoke again. "Excuse my forwardness. It may startle you, and I cannot account for it myself, but I believe I've dreamed of you."

"Have you?" she asked surprisedly, skipping in time with the music as it directed her.

"It was a strange dream," he explained. "We knew each other in the dream. Someone stole you away, and I journeyed through an ever changing Labyrinth to rescue you." He shook his head, as if to clear it of cobwebs and stray dreams, and laughed. "No matter, it was just a dream."

"There's no such thing as 'just a dream,'" she told him with strange clarity, even as the room spun around her. She caught glimpses of fragments, a swirl of gown, a thigh of blue, pieces of individuals but never the whole.

He conceded readily, shaking his head fondly,"I suppose there isn't. After all, it means we've met before, even if we don't know each other's names. My name is Lucas."

"The prince?"

"The very same," he admitted openly. "At your service, my lady. But you remain nameless to me. Will you not share the secret with me?"

Just then, another dancer snatched her away and danced her into the crowd until she couldn't see the matador anymore, passing her from partner to partner. Of the matador, she caught barely more than his expression of shock and annoyance before she was lost in the dance. She let the masked men whirl her through the ballroom, who smiled ravenously and licked their lips as they praised her beauty. She changed partners so many times until she lost all sense of direction, and the faces became a blur, and all she could see were smiles, predatory smiles, and still they continued to dance that maddening dance.

He would find her. He always did.

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Hide your face, so the world will never find you....

-- "Masquerade," The Phantom of the Opera²

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Jareth watched her from the balcony, hidden within the shadows that surrounded the room. He'd felt her the minute she arrived, a charged crackle beneath his skin that only she ignited, a gravitational force that guided his eye unerringly to her bright being in that nefarious crowd. He had known that she would come, had counted on her presence in his sick, twisted game. He knew that she was searching the crowd for him, waiting for him to go to her, and he would. He could not stay away. He'd never been able to stay away from her. Completely selfish, yes, but he had nothing more to lose. Nothing except one thing....

It was time to join the dance.

Sarah knew the minute he took her hand that he was not another lost soul. Not a vestige of skin escaped his costume, red as blood and grand as any king's. Black gloves encased his hands, yet she could feel that his fingers were long and skeletal through the leather. His hat was handsomely plumed, and his cape trailed longer than any else in the ballroom. A mask of Death concealed his face. Red Death stalked abroad that night!

"You have stolen someone's costume," she told her dance partner. "Who are you, to wear another's role?"

"They speak truly when they call you perceptive," he replied, a hint of a smile in his voice. His voice seeped under awareness, soft and compelling and _old._ Not the trembling croaks of old men, but a voice that had witnessed and could tell the history of the world. "Indeed, this role goes to someone else tonight. But you are mistaken, for this is no costume. I have come as myself."

Somehow Sarah was not surprised. It seemed unremarkable that Death should be here tonight.

"You have grown remarkably since I last saw you," he continued. "The child was endearing, but the woman is enchanting. My son showed great foresight that day when he asked me to spare you."

"Your son?" she asked. She was starting to grow dizzy, the room would not stop spinning.

Death's voice was rueful. "As close as any can be, without the ties of blood to bind us. I have learned to love him as my own, just as you love him. I know that he loves you too, in his own way, though he does so unwillingly. It may seem a twisted kind of love, but it is the only kind of love he knows. He cannot love you without hating you."

"How can anyone love and hate someone at the same time?" Sarah asked breathlessly. They were spinning faster and faster. Her dizzy mind clung to the last thing it heard

"They are both passions that bewilder the heart. How often one turns into the other! So it is with Jareth. Yet he is determined to hate, and so he has locked away his heart and hidden the key. But it has become a curse. You must break it."

Everything was dancing.... Sarah closed her eyes, fighting vertigo. "How do I do that?"

Death's hand tightened around her own, a gentle squeeze. "If he can remember his name, the name his mother whispered over him as a babe, he can reclaim his human identity. Shakespeare lied when he wrote that names mean nothing. A name is identity. A name defines a person, it helps us know that person. Jareth does not know himself, and so he is trapped in his own blindness and hatred. His hatred of his mother's blinds him to the truth. Whatever Jareth believes, his mother loved him very much. But he cannot believe it. He refuses to believe it. Remember that," he whispered, and he was gone, gone as she was swept spinning into the arms of...

Him. The one who'd always find her.

The music changed suddenly, no longer frenzied or wild, but melancholic. The haunting strains of forgotten music enfolded them lovingly, and Sarah was drunk on it, intoxicated with its wordless story with romance and sorrow and something else. For several minutes, they could only stare at each other while the world whirled past around them, for their feet seemed to have forgotten how to dance. Everything was forgotten. The world did not exist anymore except for the person before their eyes.

Oh, but he was beautiful! She had never supposed men could be handsome before she saw him. She had never seen beautiful men before him. He was the only unmasked man at the ball. His wild hair was sprinkled with starlight, and his pale skin seemed luminescent, as if it were woven from moonlight. His features were sharp and angular, full of dark contours and hollows. The Impressionist artists used paint to capture the effect of light upon the canvas, but this man was a study in shadows. Even his coat was made from darkness, no, it was spun from Valentine evenings. It was all the colors of the sunset, blazing red and fiery gold, soft lavender and dusky blue, ebony, and gleaming violet. It was all these colors, and it was black, embellished with gems across his shoulders and back and cuffs. But none of this could compare to his eyes, which were pale smoldering blue. She might have been unnerved by their strangeness another time. At the moment, they stole her breath away with their fierceness.

Sarah licked her lips nervously. His gaze was penetrating, and she felt... exposed. "Do I know you, sir?" she asked. "For you seem very familiar to me."

He tilted his head to the side, studying her. He seemed to like what he saw, and how could he not? She was the most beautiful woman at the ball. She knew it from the way he smiled, from the lines of his body as it stretched towards her, from his unwavering attention. "Not as familiar as I'd wish," he replied with a secretive smile. He began to twirl her through the room. Her prior dizziness had vanished, and his hands on her body was thrilling. Dancing with him was both easy and natural, and she leaned into his arms trustingly. "Tell me, princess, have you found your way into the part yet?"

"I'm not a princess," was her automatic response. She blushed at her own guilelessness. "I am wearing glass slippers, but I am not a princess."

"Contrary, my precious Sarah. In the language of its origin, your name means _princess_. There, you cannot deny it. Your name says you are such," he laughed. They danced under the arches, brushing against the golden tassels as they meandered in and out of the ballroom. "But you are right, the role does not suit you. You are no powerless princess sitting by her window waiting to be saved, whose fate rests on the whim of men. You have the soul of a _queen._"

"What about your soul?" she asked.

How strangely insubstantial the crowd seemed! Like the reflection of a ball upon a window pane, through which the room was still darkly visible. Even the laughter and conversation seemed muted, like listening to a worn record, like voices underwater. Perhaps the crowd was not there at all. Perhaps it was the memory of a ball, and the phantasmal dancers were ghosts lingering among the walls and in the music, unwilling to give up this moment. Even after their corporal bodies had long faded into dust, the dance would continue.

Even as the crowd seemed to fade, the music became more solid, more real. Sarah imagined that if she put her tongue out, she could have tasted its presence in the air. It would be a purple sort of taste, for the music was both sad and beautiful at the same time. It pressed against her like an affectionate cat, twining itself between their bodies and lavishing its caresses against bare skin. His embrace become more intimate as he drew her in closer, his hand no longer on her waist but in the small of her back, holding her close to him. Their entwined hands he brought to his heart. "Do you hear that, Sarah?" he whispered. "This is the sound of my soul. This is the sound of a soul that belongs to you and you alone. It is a soul that will find its way back to you, despite a hundred dangers and thousand hardships."

So close to each other, they danced through the ghostly crowd. Even the ballroom itself seemed to fade, and they were dancing on nothing, they were dancing on air, dancing through the sky surrounded by stars. The universe stretched and contracted, reshaping itself until it fitted within their awareness, defined only by the two dancers. No one and nothing else existed. They were the only two souls, the soul of a queen and the soul of someone who ached to be her king, suspended in this moment, and only the music reminded them of the existence of time.

" -- a fooled heart, beating so fast in search of new dreams," he sang softly. "A love that will last within your heart. I'll place the moon within your heart...."

And this moment would last, imprinted in her heart forever, to be dancing in his arms as he sang about a love that would remain even if everything else fell. Their bodies would fall apart, the world may fall down, but love would last. It would be written in her eyes and in her heart and in the stars and among the stars, a lasting truth even if nothing else made sense, even as nothing made sense, because it made no sense to fall, and she was falling even yet.

The last strains of the music faded.

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Music's the reason why I know time still exists...  
Time still exists....

So I just put my arms around you....

-- Eliza, "Dancing"³

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The universe broke without the support of melody, crumbling into dust and whispers and laughter. The specters around them flickered back into existence. His hands loosened, almost releasing her, and she almost stumbled without his support, a small involuntary step backwards, except he swept her into his arms again, as if he feared she would vanish from his sight, hide herself into the crowd and disappear. He enfolded her in a suffocating embrace, pressing her face against his chest, and then he was gone. Perhaps there had been a scent of roses. Perhaps he had murmured something to her. Perhaps he kissed her hair. It happened so quickly, and with the ghosts of these gestures upon her skin, the prince in a matador costume swept her into the dance again.

Roses.... They teased at her memory, twining their creepers around her consciousness like thorns climbing up a tower. There was something very important about roses. They haunted the stories of sleeping princess, of enchantments, of unrequited love, and of quests. Roses were important. Roses were important. Why were they important? The answer lay on her tongue, and she struggled to taste it.

The prince was speaking, his words faded and garbled, breaking harshly into her thoughts. She blinked confusedly and smiled. "Oh, yes, the roses are beautiful," she replied.

His lips pursed in a frown, soft boyish lips with limited expression. "What roses?" he asked.

The roses in my apartment, she said. My apartment is filled with them, and they're_ everywhere_, as if they were growing over the walls, they're growing over the walls and devouring the castle. They're the color of blood and passion and love, deeper than ordinary scarlet red, which is only a momentary fever that passes. These roses are deep red, like the color of the last drop of blood in your heart, a secret desire that endures and flourishes and blooms. The roses are deep red, except there is another rose, and that rose is the color of heartache. It is the color of heartache and despair and grief....

_You frighten me... or could it be...._

Her heart was breaking....

His eyes bore into hers, stripping her bare until he saw her soul and her secrets, and she could no longer hide from him, she could no longer hide from herself. "What do you desire?" he asked, and this time, she would not be able to lie. She desired... she desired...

The clock began to strike.

Sarah turned to run, but the prince gripped her firmly by the arm. "Where are you going?" he cried.

Another stroke....

He seemed to read her answer upon her face, an answer that did not please him. "Don't leave, please don't leave," he pleaded. "Stay here with me, and I will make you a princess. Marry me. Marry me, and you will have everything you want, everything that I can give you."

The third stroke, and the fourth passed by.

"Let me rescue you!"

The fifth....

She tried to shake his hand off angrily, but he was physically stronger than her. "I don't _want_ to be rescued! I don't need to be rescued, and I certainly don't want to be a princess!" she hissed, green eyes blazing. Her fear only added to her anger. Already the bell had tolled five times....

Six times....

"Then why are you here? Why did you come to the ball, if not to find a prince?" he demanded in return. "Or is it... you want a king instead? A prince is not enough for you?"

The seventh stroke....

She slapped him. The smack echoed loudly in the suddenly silent room.

Eight....

"No," she said quietly, her voice trembling with restrained fervor. Even then, her words filled the room and drowned out the chiming of the clock. "I want neither prince nor king. You presume very much when you imagine I came to the ball seeking either. Even Cinderella went to the ball only for the sake of dancing. But if I were forced to choose, I would ask for a man, for I have met princes and kings who cannot be worthy of that title. I want a man who will be there for me, even if the world fell down. I don't want to have my dreams handed to me, because I would forget to treasure them. They would become empty promises, given lightly and forgotten easily. I want to fight for my dreams, and I will cherish whatever happiness I win. And even if all this vanishes when I leave, even if my dress becomes rags and I find my carriage is only a pumpkin, I will still have my glass slippers."

The ninth and tenth stroke had passed during her speech. When she shook him off her arm again, he let her go numbly, as if he were a long distance away from her, separated by water that rendered his actions sluggish.

The eleventh stroke sounded as she ran up the stairs. She met with no resistance. The crowd parted before her, almost recoiling in horror as she approached.

At the twelfth stroke, she threw open the doors.

----------------------------------------------------

I dreamed that love would never die....

-- "I Dreamed a Dream," _Les Misérables_

----------------------------------------------------

In the whiteness that engulfed her, she felt Jareth trace her cheek with his lips, brushing against her skin just barely.

_Well done, precious. I was counting on you to break the dream...._

And he was gone.

Slowly, slowly, the world settled back into place, Tetris pieces clicking together to form walls and floors and a ceiling. The marble floor was icy against Sarah's cheek, its coldness seeping through her clothes into her skin, and she picked herself. She was alone in one of the castle antechambers, a thirteen pointed star upon its golden marble floor, thrusting out towards thirteen doors. The splendid gown was gone, the glass slippers had vanished. She wore her ordinary, drab Aboveground clothes, her scarf wrapped around her neck, and her feet were shod in high heeled boots.

She was alone.

"Ooh, when I get hands on either of them," she muttered. "He's playing at something, and I want to know what it is! Being under a curse doesn't excuse him from anything!"

She wandered through a random open door, unaware of directions or where it led. Through the door, she founded herself in a small courtyard of white marble. The sky was a sickly blue struggling towards daybreak. In the faint light, everything seemed ghostly and faded, or perhaps it was all carved out of the ice. Even the fountain in the middle of the courtyard was white, the water still. A woman with white hair sat by the fountain, her shoulders clad in ermine fur. She sat so still that she seemed a statue, until she spoke.

"Hello, Sarah," she said calmly. "I've been looking forward to meeting you in the flesh."

"Have you?" Sarah asked faintly.

"Oh yes. I've wanted to meet the woman who reclaimed a child from the Goblin King. So many mothers have tried and failed, and you succeeded for a child that isn't your son, but a half brother."

"I didn't mean to wish him away," Sarah protested. "I love Toby very much. I never meant to hurt him, I didn't know Jareth would actually carry him away!"

"Humans are interesting creatures. You let your emotions and passions rule you, then regret those choices in the next moment! So it was with yourself. So it was with your mother," the woman said quietly, turning towards the girl, "and so was it with me, the first woman to wish away her child. Did you know that Jareth is the first child taken by the goblins, and the foolish creatures, not knowing what to do with a babe, took him to Death."

Sarah froze.

The woman's face was wrapped in strips of cloth, like a mask of bandages were her were, or rather, where her eyes would be if she still had them. Yet they were unable to hide the distinctive cheekbones, the proud arch of the nose, or the sardonic curve of the lips. Diamonds glittered at her throat, fragments of ice and snowflakes strung together elaborately. There was no mistaking who this woman was.

The pale woman smiled, red lips curving sensuously. She was more glamorous in life than the paintings suggested. The artist had managed to imitate the ambition in her eyes, but paint failed to capture the woman's gestures -- a tilt of the head, a wave of the hand -- that set her apart from other women and caused them to fade into the background.

"You're Jareth's mother... He thinks you abandoned him."

The Snow Queen smiled sadly. "Yes, and yes. Like you, I journeyed through dangers and hardships to this castle to save a child, and at the last moment, I failed. My poor son is now caught between life and death, neither truly alive nor dead. But I have never abandoned him. Even now, I stay by his side and wait for the day someone can save him him."

There was something very familiar about the way she spoke, the lilt of her voice that became a breeze and lifted the ends of Sarah's hair; about the way the chills emanated off her white clad body. She sat by the fountain, and yet she was everywhere, wandering through the rooms and halls of the castle. She was there upon the highest tower and in the passages of the Labyrinth.

"You're the wind," Sarah said to the beautiful pale woman. "You're the wind that blows through the castle."

The Snow Queen's smile widened, imperceptibly, but it widened nevertheless. "Yes."

"You talk to us. You whisper things.... "

"I whisper his name, but he cannot hear me. He has closed his heart to me, and all he can hear are the sad sighs. But he can hear you. You must tell his name to him," said the mother.

_He has locked away his heart and hidden the key. But it has become a curse. You must break it. If he can remember his name, the name his mother whispered over him as a babe, he can reclaim his human identity,_ Death said. _Remember that._

_Remember that._

Jareth's mother sat upon the edge of fountain, asking her to tell Jareth his true name. The name that she whispered over him as a baby. This woman had once bent over the cradle and murmured prayers that began and ended with one word, the word that was his name.

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Sarah was running.

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Author's Notes: I wasn't going to push the PotO envelop any more, truly I wasn't. At first, I'd envisioned Cinderella's ball, perhaps, or another dozen similar situations in other fairy tales. But then I thought, why not? Why not use the Masquerade Ball from PotO?

Which incidentally, Leroux ripped off of Edgar Allen Poe's "Masque of the Red Death."

For any who caught the hint in my responses to review, yes, the story is ending soon. I actually cannot wait to finish this, because it will be one less demon riding on my shoulders. It started out as exorcism, but it has since morphed and mutated into something... else. Once I'm done with this, I can start writing something much more lighthearted. I have little experience in writing humor, perhaps I will try my hand at that.

1 Opera composed by Michael William Balfe, libretto by Alfred Bunn. Personally, my favorite performer is Sissel, although Enya's version is more complete and has greater recognition.

2 While Andrew Lloyd Webber is award credit for the composition of this brilliant musical, it bears pointing that the lyrics were written by Charles Hart, with additional (that is to say, _original_) lyrics by Richard Stilgoe.

3 I love this song, but I had to footnote it for GRAMMATICAL MISTAKES. Okay, one grammatical mistake. Using _reason_ and _why_ in the same sentence is redundant! Actually, using any of _reason, why_, or _because_ in the same sentence is redundant. You can thank my 10th grade English teacher, Ms Holly Ivy, for this vehemence.


	26. Transcendence

**Disclaimer: **

**Standard disclaimers apply. **

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson, George Lucas, Brian Froud, as well as its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

* * *

**Chapter 24**

**Transcendence**

Ride ten thousand days and nights,  
Till age snow white hairs on thee...  
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,  
All strange wonders that befell thee,  
And swear,  
No where  
Lives a woman true and fair.

-- John Donne, "Song"¹

* * *

Luke did not wake up immediately.

As the clock struck twelve, the doors burst open with the weight of light. It streamed into the ballroom in waves, washing away the colors from the ballroom, washing away details and depth and shadow until he was in a barren expanse of snow, so cold that the sky had lost its color too. Except when he looked closer, it was not the white of snow, it was the white of nothing. There was no form to the white, no dimensions or planes, no distant horizon. It stretched on as far as the eye could see, as far as the mind could conceive. It was a blankness, like a new world waiting to be filled, a new leaf of paper waiting to be marked.

Then something began to stain the whiteness of this blank realm, like a drop of spilled wine -- a drop of shed blood -- that blossoms on the tablecloth -- upon the unblemished snow -- and seeps into the firmament forming hieroglyphs. But this was neither wine nor blood, but ink, guided by the invisible nib of an unseen pen. Together they shaped words, words written in looping uneven letters, words that were at once familiar and strange.

_Once upon a time.... Once upon a time there was a beautiful young woman whose stepmother always made her stay home with the baby. The baby was a spoiled child who wanted everything for himself, and the young woman was practically a slave. But what no one knew was that the King of the Goblins had fallen in love with her and had given her certain powers. One night, when the baby had been particularly cruel, the girl called on the goblins for help. 'Say your right words,' the goblins said, 'and we'll take the baby away, and you will be free!'"_

_But the girl knew that the King of the Goblins would keep the baby in his castle and turn him into a goblin, and so she suffered in silence...._

Luke looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. But words were blooming everywhere he turned, and he could not ignore the story.

_Nobody saw the owl, white in the moonlight, black against the stars, nobody heard him as he glided over on silent wings of velvet. The owl saw and heard everything...._

_Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the Goblin City to take back the child that you have stolen...._

_Hidden behind another man's cape, Jareth had watched it all, but Sarah had not seen him watching. His eyes were following Sarah wherever she went in the corrupt ballroom._

_She was tense now, self-conscious, among people she could not understand but who behaved as though they knew something that she didn't know. She moved hurriedly around the ballroom looking for Jareth. She did not know why she wanted to find him, or what she would say to him. She just knew that it was vitally important that she should find him._

And then, his own story....

_"Unfortunately, women are such capricious creatures, are they not?" an unfamiliar voice asked. Luke turned._

_The speaker lounged in one of the seats to the left of the stage, where the shadows lay thick and heavy. Which may explain how Luke hadn't seen him. Yet now that he'd spotted him, Luke wondered how he could've missed the man. He was tall, even while sitting, his legs propped up in lazy elegance on the back of the chair in front of him. His entire being exuded power. It was in the lines of his body, the way he lounged in the cramped theatre chair as though it was a grand throne, the way he tilted his head as he spoke, in the expensive understatement of his black clothes. The careless grace, the damned self-assuredness. That shocking head of blond hair, so blond it was almost white._

_"Oh, I like to think that we are all living in our personal fairy story," Sarah said. "It's just whether or not we can see the magic in our lives to notice." She never looked more beautiful to him then when she said those words, surrounded by a sea of roses as she smiled and spoke about magic. It was like looking at a painting of a princess, untenable and heartbreaking, because he could see that she meant the words, that she could see magic in the world, and if he could reach her somehow, he would be able to see it too._

_There was nowhere to hide, nothing that her eyes did not see. They stripped him bare, delving past his defenses until he was sure that she knew. Where was the fifteen year old child who had fled from him seven years ago? She was a ghost, a memory, left behind in the Labyrinth, haunting its stones....Haunting its ruler._

The words wrote themselves frenziedly, overlapping each other in search of space to tell themselves. The white began to disappear, devoured by the black ink, and he could not read the words fast enough before they bled into one another, layers and layers of words that obstructed one another in the telling until the story was lost, the story was lost. The world was no longer white, it was black.

The world was black.

Then new words began to appear, writing themselves across the darkness, like children who draw shapes in the air with fairy wands, lines of light that linger for a moment before dying back into nothing.

_But what no one knew was that the King of the Goblins had fallen in love with her..._

And he was left again in the darkness.

* * *

Yet when we came back, late... I could not  
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither  
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,  
Looking into the heart...

T.S. Eliot, The Wasteland, "I. The Burial of the Dead"

* * *

The sound of her footstep echoed in her ears, reflected and magnified and multiplied until she was surrounded, chased by thousands of invisible goblins, hunted by the weight of past years, haunted by the ghosts of the people that might have been, of the woman she might have been had she chosen differently, of the man Jareth might have been, of the children who never grew up, all of them the cast of unwritten stories, stories no one would never know.

Hurry, they cried to her. Hurry, Sarah, hurry!

The story cannot be rewritten. Words cannot be swallowed, taken back, exchanged, changed. Had Jareth not said so seven years ago on that fateful night? What's said is said....

Hurry, before it is too late....

The weight of stories not yet written, that will never be written pressed down upon her, pushed against her, lending their strength to her tired feet. They urged her on.

Before the story has ended....

* * *

His mattress was lumpy. His mattress was never lumpy. He'd visited countless stores, testing innumerable mattresses in search of the perfect mattress. He'd rejected mattresses for being too hard or too soft, denied mattresses that were too squishy. He'd winced at mattresses that were too springy or creaked when he bounced on them. The perfect mattress, _his_ perfect mattress, was soft as a cloud and yet firm enough to support his back, which he'd injured playing basketball back in school. So this was not his mattress. His mattress should not be lumpy.

Yet this mattress was lumpy. It was lumpy and hard and cold. He rolled onto his side, trying to find the softest patch and smoothest corner. But the lumps refused to go away and dug into his hip with greater malevolence, and he found that he was also wide awake. So he opened his eyes and rolled onto his back.

The ceiling above was not his ceiling. It was high and lofty, disappearing into hazy shadows in the wan morning light. Cobwebs streamed from wooden beams, gossamer curtains more delicate than any spun silk. His ceiling did not have wooden rafters, and he would have fired the cleaning lady if he'd found any cobwebs anywhere in his apartment. He was not in his bedroom, not in his bed, which would explain the lumpiness. In fact, he was not in any bed at all. He lay on the cold, dank floor of a derelict castle, staring up at a drafty ceiling hung with broken dreams.

"Well, you woke up," someone, someone he couldn't see -- a man with a deep and cultured voice -- Jareth -- said pleasantly. Luke rolled onto his side, searching for the speaker, a silhouette at the window, seated upon the ledge, his shadow cast long across the dusty floor. "I wondered how much longer you planned to sleep."

In the wan grey light, the walls were faint and ghostly. Nothing seemed solid, everything spectral parodies of common objects -- an empty cradle, a shattered mirror, a wilting flower, a faded portrait. Even the Goblin King was dark within a corona of light, hidden, obscured, eclipsed, melting into the frame of the window, still as stone, an ornate figurehead emerging from the walls. The cobwebs were lingering souls, phantom witnesses to this final confrontation, waiting to see how the story would unfold. They were rends in the fabric of reality, windows to another world layered on top of this world, beneath this world, existing at the same time as this one, lines and forms and shades, or perhaps they were words, spun into the fabric by literate spiders. No, they were just ordinary webs, spun by ordinary spiders. But if Charlotte dwelt among these stones, what word would she choose to describe her roommate? _Narcissistic_ would probably be the first choice, followed closely by _sadistic_ and _twisted,_ or _perverse_ Luke himself was partial to the word _creep_. "Where am I?"

"Where else for the finale to our story?"

Where else. Beyond the dark figure, he could see the Labyrinth stretch out, spread out, sprawling and distant. An eagle's view, high above the terrain, high above the castle.

Where else, indeed.

Luke climbed to his feet. Dust clung to his clothes, and he wondered how long he had lain on the floor. How long had he slept? Perhaps only ten minutes, or an hour, or even a year. Perhaps he was asleep still.

"Did you enjoy your dream?" Jareth asked.

"What's it to you?" Luke retorted.

"Didn't get the girl, huh?" Jareth observed almost -- almost -- sympathetically. "Cinderella ran away from the prince and didn't even leave behind a glass shoe for you as a token? Such a pity...."

Luke changed his mind. _Bastard_ was a better description.

"But to answer your question, 'what is it to me,' oh, nothing really," Jareth continued, his tone still light and conversational and amiable, belying the sarcasm of his words. "Nothing beyond mild amusement at -- what shall we call it? Your inability to play the role of Prince Charming, perhaps?"

"If you don't like my dream, you can stay the fuck out of it," Luke spat out. "Why do you have to intrude anyways?"

The villain shrugged, resting his cheek upon a hand. A slant of light fell upon his visage, a wash of identity across grey planes and hollows. "Through no fault of my own. Given a choice, I would not have chosen your dream," he replied dismissively. "As it was, we three dreamt the same scenario, how can you say it was your dream? Perhaps you intruded upon my dream. Perhaps you and I both encroached upon Sarah's dream." His lips curled. "Did you enjoy her dream, dear Lucas?"

"You're a sick fuck," Luke said flatly. "You enjoy this, don't you, spying on other people's dreams and twisting them and laughing at them. What gives you the right?"

"What gives me the right?" the silhouette repeated, unfolding itself, detaching itself from the frame as the Goblin King lowered himself from the window to his feet and advanced upon the smaller man. He was dressed still in his coat of Valentine evenings, vestige of a dream he refused to surrender. "I am the Goblin King. It is what I do, and you, my fine fellow, you must not flatter yourself. I'm not interested in the dreams of mortals, especially not yours. After six thousand years of peering into the sleeping subconscious, I have seen many dreams and have marveled at the waning imagination of your race. The dreamscapes hold little allure for me now."

A hand flexed, clenching into a fist and then spreading the fingers wide. "But you know Sarah's dreams."

"Ay, yes, well." Jareth trailed a bare hand along the stone arch as he turned away from the director. His voice now was quiet, almost reverent. "She has very beautiful dreams, so vivid and strong that I cannot help but be drawn to them. They call to me. They are dreams that reflect a soul that could conquer the world."

In that moment, witnessing the Goblin King framed in light and longing for the dreams of a mortal woman, longing for her soul, Luke suddenly began to understand. All the little inconsistencies, all the pieces that refused to fit together fell into place, rearranging themselves around the central missing piece that had suddenly reappeared. The Goblin King stood by the window, speaking gently and reverently about a mortal woman who had defeated him as a child. He spoke about her as a woman.

"You _sick fuck_," he repeated breathlessly, both hands clenched into fists. "You're in love with her."

Jareth's face, turned back towards him, remained in shadow, impassive and unreadable. He said nothing, neither confirming nor refute. He did not need to say anything.

His composure only incensed Luke further. "Impossible. You don't even know what love is, how could you? You're sick, and you're twisted and selfish. Sarah's beautiful, and you just want to own her, anything to dispel your sense of inferiority when _she beat you_. Oh, it's okay if she beat me, because I was secretly in love with her and I let her. All you want is revenge, that's not love."

Jareth laughed then, a harsh brittle sound that rasped through the air like a rusty knife. "You're right," he conceded. "I don't know how to love." His eyes dared Luke. To what? To agree with him for once, perhaps, or if he could, to alter the situation.

Luke's response was to grab Jareth by the collar. All thoughts of the difference in their physical size, of their possible disparities in strength, of Jareth's supremacy in this realm, vanished in a moment of blinding hatred. He only knew that he wanted to hurt the Goblin King, to disfigure that handsome arrogant face and wipe away that mocking smile. The _how_ was irrelevant. "Sarah is mine, she's not yours!"

"Contrary." Jareth closed a fist over a lacerated arm, His fingers were skeletal, painfully thin and surprisingly strong. A death grip indeed, rigid and unyielding, the pain forcing Luke to unclench his fingers from the expensive cloth. His anger rolled off in waves, a calm and controlled ire more frightening than Luke's wild rage, betrayed only by the hard light in his eyes. His quiet voice chilled the younger man to the bone. "If Sarah belonged to anyone, she is mine. Her own mother gave her to me. What do you base your claim on? A single paltry kiss? If that is the basis, than Sarah is mine tenfold, a hundred fold, a thousand fold, willingly and eagerly given."

Kisses given and kisses taken... A scent of roses in her hair... and he was falling, falling, falling through the dark, falling through the stars, falling towards Heaven...

"And though I may not know love, I know hunger. I know passion. I know that this girl reduces me to a humble slave, and it _irks_ me to know that she has that power over me even as I lack any over her. I know that I will not be content until I have broken her spirit, until she grovels at my feet, until I have her whimpering for my mercy. I have wanted Sarah with a greater force than your meager heart is capable of. Your so-called love for her is a blind puppy dog love, insubstantial and shallow and fleeting, whereas I have wanted her for _seven years_. Without her, I become only a pale shadow of what I am. Light is not light, joy is not joy without her. I would commit crimes for her. I would move the stars for her," Jareth growled, pulling the other man closer until they were nose to nose, the heat of his wrath overwhelming against Luke's skin. "I would die for her. Would you do the same?"

Luke swallowed. Hard. "Yes!" he whispered, trapped under Jareth's gaze, caught by its force and petrified by its heat.

"Would you? How very generous of you!" Jareth replied, amused, releasing the boy with a shove.

"What you would know of generosity?" Luke spat, nursing his bruised arm. "All you do is take. You're greed itself, all you care about is what you want. You're a void, devouring everything around you to fill the emptiness inside, and nothing will ever be enough. There's nothing of you to give."

"How insightful," the blond man mused, tapping his cheek with one white, skeletal finger. "Perhaps you're right. I do nothing that does not benefit me. My generosity is always calculated. And speaking of generosity, what have you done with my gift? You can't have lost it again so soon."

"I gave it away."

That got the Goblin King's attention. He opened his blue eyes wide, his finger stilling against his jaw for a mere second as he contemplated his adversary, turning Luke's words over and over in his mind. Then he smiled. No, he grinned, a wide open grin full of wicked mirth. "You gave it away! For nothing, tra la la? You _are_ a generous boy. Might I ask who you gave it to?"

"I'm not a boy, and I didn't give it away for nothing," Luke denied flatly. "It was the price I had to pay to cross the lake."

"Lake?"

Luke did not see the beginnings of a furrow between the two black brows, the faintest trace of disquiet. "The lake outside your castle. You know, I can't decided if you wanted me to reach the castle or not. You purposely helped me out of the forest, I don't know why, but you did. And without your crystal, I couldn't have crossed the lake."

The other man said nothing, waiting for him to finish.

"I bartered the crystal in order to get across the lake. It -- the lake, that is -- told me it's a thing of magic, a thing of dreams. And in return, it gave me these." Luke fished in his pocket, closing his hands around the two treasures he'd been charged to deliver. "Apparently these are for you."

"Oh?" Jareth asked expectantly.

He had resented the charge, dreading this confrontation with the villain of the story, sullen with the weight of obligation. He not not anticipated his reluctance to part with the jewels. Beyond their immense material value -- both large and perfectly round, gleaming with dark iridescence -- they felt like a protective charm, a secret treasure guarded for thousands of years and then entrusted to him. They should not be given to a dark king. They should grace the beauty of a princess. His hand trembled.

_That is the way it is, and it is the way you must do it,_ the Lake told him. _Do you want to be beholden to Jareth after this?_

No. Anything but that.

He opened his hand slowly, then closed them again. A moment of inspiration.

"First, where's Sarah?" he demanded, pulling back his closed hand. "Nothing for nothing, Goblin King."

That enigmatic and insidious smile widened, crinkling mocking eyes. "Of course," he agreed. "Nothing for nothing. And so I now name my price, the price for the gift you gave away so easily." He laughed at the outraged expression that distorted Luke's comely features into something even more abhorrent than the Opera Ghost's ugliness.

"That's not fair! You're a cheat," Luke spat.

"I have to be," Jareth said gently, patiently, as if educating a young child and Luke was the slow pupil unable to grasp the concept at hand. Some things shouldn't have to be explained. His nature should never have to be explained. "I am the Goblin King. I am what people have made me, and you have made me cunning and twisted. Fairness is not a part of my nature. So you've named the price for whatever you hold in your hands. Very well. Find her and take her away from my castle."

"And what is your price, for your _generosity_ as you called it?" Luke asked warily.

"The price for your dreams?"

Jareth's expression only confused him. On another man's face, that expression might have been called longing. Upon that pale cruel face, it was horrible to behold.

The wind began to wail.

* * *

After the agony in stony places...  
Prison and place and reverberation...

-- T.S. Eliot, _The Wasteland_, "V. What the Thunder Said"

* * *

The cry of the wind was the wild shriek of a banshee, the painful sob of a mother whose heart had been torn out. It shook the walls of the castle, reverberating amongst the stones and mortar, as if it would tear the palace apart with fingers made of air.

Sarah, climbing the stairs in the dark, heard it and clapped her hands over her ears.

It whipped the hair of the Goblin King, a golden torrent within the storm that shook the castle. It seemed to wipe the colors from the walls as easily as grains of sand, scattering pigments into the violent air. Instead, the dreams in the air flared with brilliant radiance, kaleidoscopes of desire, overshadowing the stone walls and decrepit furnishings. The world seemed to fade, less and less substantial to Luke's eyes, a transparent veil drawn over another universe struggling to break through. Even Jareth's bejeweled coat gleamed only with a dull sheen -- subdued, muted, indistinct -- and the man a phantasm, blurring into the gloom of this spectral domain.

"You're got to be kidding me," Luke blurted out, betraying himself in his shock.

"I am always sincere," Jareth said, the same words he'd offered once to a girl in a library, only a lifetime ago, a few days ago, a few hours ago. A girl fearless and yet unsure of her own appeal, unsure of her allure in his eyes. "I may mask the truth, but I tell no lies. I say nothing that I do not mean."

"But... why? It doesn't make sense. It shouldn't even be possible." Luke argued doggedly and ineffectively. "It's impossible."

Jareth shook his head. "Not impossible, just... difficult to find. Hidden. Concealed."

In that moment, Luke perceived his rival as an old man, as ancient as time itself. What were the words, sung in sympathy under a golden statuette upon the stage? She'd seen something in his eyes, and it inspired her. A woman, frightened for her life and yet drawn towards the man who awakened her fear and her voice. Yet in his eyes....

"Besides," Jareth persisted. "You are the hero of this story."

That didn't make sense. Nothing made sense. It never made any sense. All the thrills of adventure were gone, thrills he'd never noticed he had been feeling. It didn't make any sense. And suddenly Luke realized what he was seeing in Jareth's eyes, and he remembered the lyrics from that musical he'd watched once and never understood until now.

All the sadness of the world.

Those pleading eyes were now staring past him, at something or someone behind him. He didn't need to see her reflection in the broken mirror, fragments of the woman pieced together haphazardly in a mockery of a Picasso painting, to know that Sarah stood behind him. The raw and terrible ache upon Jareth's features told him all he needed to know.

And Luke knew that Jareth had lied earlier, because he did know love. He knew love intimately and desperately, he knew it in the form of Sarah. The Goblin King loved Sarah, he loved her fiercely and with agonizing longing, so painful that it bordered on hate, because it was cruel to illicit that kind of emotional pain, so his love and his pain drove him to hate her at the same time. He hated her because he loved her. And Luke also knew that Jareth was right, that his human emotions could never compare. He did not have the capacity for such conflicting feelings, and given time, whatever pale imitations he felt would only decay as his body would decay, while Jareth would live, carrying his constancy until the end of time. He could never hope to compete with that.

And so he did not have to look upon that terrible despair and love on Jareth's face, he turned to look at the woman who had begun this story.

She was different from when he last saw her. She was just as beautiful, perhaps even more beautiful than he recalled, and somehow more real. The lustrous sheen of her hair seemed to gleam brighter, the shadows of her face deeper, and her eyes larger and keener. She looked as if she had been a dream now given shape. Strange how thirteen hours could transfer a woman so much.

He caught her in his arms, swinging her up as he held onto her tightly. "Sarah, you're alright!" he exclaimed joyously. She was reassuringly solid to the touch. Not an illusion. Not a trick. A corporeal Sarah, here, in his arms. He tightened his arms, squeezing her.

"Put me down, Luke," Sarah said softly, her eyes only for the preternatural king.

"There now," Jareth said, his voice quiet and carefully masked. His eyes never wavered, never flinched, never looked away. He would not look away, could not look away. "I promised you you'd see Sarah, didn't I?"

Luke set her down again, retaining one arm on the small of her back protectively. "Why?" he asked his adversary, dark eyebrows drawn together in confusion. _Why did you promise such a thing? Why are you making this easy for me? Why did you help me out of the forest? Why did you choose me? Why?_

_Why are you letting her go, if you love her so much?_

"'To know all is lost,'" Jareth sighed. It was unclear if he spoke in answer to Luke's question, or if his words were one final pledge to Sarah. "'That life is a cursed hell.'"³

"I don't understand."

The villain -- king -- tragic hero -- Jareth -- laughed softly. "No, you wouldn't," he agreed without an rancor. It was like saying the sky was blue, like saying breathing was good, like saying love lifts the soul to where it belongs. It was a fact, nothing more and nothing less. Luke could not understand, because he was not Jareth and would never be anything like Jareth. It was as simple as that.

And because he was not Jareth, he stepped forwards towards the man who was. He stretched out his hand and opened it.

Jareth glanced at the offering, turning his head nonchalantly, and froze. A myriad of emotions flitted across that pale marble face, too quickly for Luke to identify individually, yet he realized that he should probably be alarmed. The Goblin King was tensed, his body drawn taut as a bowstring ready to fire. Luke thought idly of physic classes he'd forgotten since high school, of fancy terms like the Conservation of Energy. In his memory, the physics teacher placed a piece of chalk on the edge of the blackboard as he explained how the chalk has no kinetic energy but teems with potential energy.

Then Mr. Flynn had pushed it over, and the whole class had watched it break upon the floor, a small cloud of powder settling around the broken pieces.

Jareth was the whole length of chalk, poised on the precipice, a ball of pent up energy waiting to be released. It was not... anger. Not strictly. It was something else, manifested in flared nostrils and a pallor upon his already bloodless face. Very calmly, almost sedately, he lifted a hand, and with the back of it, struck Luke's proffered hand, knocking the pearls out of clumsy fingers onto the floor.

"Hey! But they were your mother's!" Luke protested, vainly searching for them. They had vanished, disappearing into the numerous cracks and niches of the stonework.

Jareth said quietly, "I know."

Whatever Luke would have done, no one knew. Sarah grabbed him by the shoulders, keeping him in place. "No," she said. One word, with the force of all her passion, and Luke turned to look at her, looked, and felt his heart turn over. "Sarah, are you alright?"

There were tears running down Sarah's face.

They glistened brightly, casting prisms into the air, and Luke remembered the stories of princesses whose tears became jewels more costly than any treasure on earth. Pearls and diamonds, richer than a king's ransom. He did not know that in another story, also set deep under the earth, a masked villain had knelt in supplication at the force of their beauty. The ache on Jareth's face became agony. "You're crying again," Jareth accused. "Oh, Sarah, please don't cry. I can't bear to see you cry."

"You should have thought of that first," she retorted, dashing the tears from her face angrily with a hand, the ring blazing with the action. "Did you think this would make me _happy?_"

"No," Jareth replied truthfully. "I was thinking that this would set you free. Because I would do anything for you. _Anything._"

_Everything I've done, I've done for you.... You can everything you want!_

The echoes of words that had long since faded into silence and distant memory lingered in the air.

_I would be your slave_.

"Will you tell me the truth?" Sarah asked, taking one step forward out of Luke's touch. Drawn towards the Goblin King by some inexorable magnetic or gravitational force. "Whatever I ask you, you have to tell me the truth, the complete truth. No sincere lies. No sly truths meant to mislead me. No withholding anything."

His lips quirked, and he spoke the words that meant more than what they said. "As you wish."

"Do you love me?"

"What?!" Luke exclaimed. He was ignored.

Jareth's smile disappeared, replaced by an expression she had not seen in seven years. He was again a vanquished king in threadbare robes of white and feathers, clinging at straws, at empty promises, at _anything_. Frightened and too haughty to admit his fear. "I don't believe in love," he said at last, heavily.

"How can you not believe in love?" Luke demanded angrily. How can you love someone as strongly as you do and not believe in love itself? You, Jareth, are proof of that emotion. Without that belief, you could never feel that emotion as strongly as you do. It was preposterous. "Love is like... like oxygen! Love is a many splendoured thing!"

"Because love is such an old-fashioned word," Jareth answered, "and it dares you to care for the people on the edge of the light. It dares you to change your way of caring for yourself. It cannot last. It is too vulnerable and subject to change, often one-sided unreciprocated. It is a heavy burden, a pressure that weighs you down. I cannot believe in something like that."

"You didn't answer my question," Sarah persisted. Another step. Another step away from Luke. Another step closer to Jareth. "I asked you if you love me. Even if you don't believe in it, you can still feel it." He looked down at her, and for the first time, she saw his lips tremble. "You said you'd tell me the truth," she reminded him.

Luke was the one who answered. An uneasy shuffle of the foot, the familiar gesture of running his hand through his hair. The hesitant answer of a boy caught in a lie, a thief forced to give away the whereabouts of his stash. Because he knew now. There had never been a choice for Sarah Williams, at least not between Luke and Jareth. And he knew that on opening night, she would refuse him, and her refusal would be final and definite. He had come here for a dream that had been only illusions in the empty air, insubstantial and flimsy, shattering too soon. Her heart had been set at the tender age of fifteen, and seven years, seventy years, nor seven hundred could ever sway her. "He does. I can tell."

"Jareth?"

And because he couldn't hide the truth anymore, because he couldn't deny the truth, because he couldn't bear to admit the truth, Jareth closed his eyes. "Yes," he breathed raggedly in submission. "Yes, I do. I love you."

Her mouth upon his mouth surprised him. Her belligerency shocked him. It was a possessive kiss, nothing of her usual gentle sensuality. If she could touch his soul, sear him with her passionate heat, mark him as hers forever. Then he was kissing her back, claiming her lips hungrily and desperately, his roughness a testimony of his desire and constancy and torment. Sarah was just as aggressive, hands winding in his hair, ravishing the expanse of his skin as she brushed lips against his eyes, his cheek, his jaw, his ear -- "Beloved," she sighed, and felt him tremble beneath her, "Beloved...." -- her fingers brushing against the roughness of his bejeweled coat, the silk of his shirt, his necklace....

With a firm grip, she tugged.

The chain snapped easily. Perhaps too easily, but Sarah paid that no mind, only aware that she held it in her hands, his pendant, and she darted away from him, stumbling over her own feet as she flung out her other hand as she clutched the charm to her, crying, "Stop! Don't move!"

No one moved. Even Luke froze, half bent from catching her. Slowly, reluctantly, Jareth lowered the arm he'd stretched out for her. He looked... defeated. "As you wish."

Sarah shrugged off Luke's protective arm, straightening upon her own legs. "What are you doing?" he asked, but she ignored him.

"Stay where you are," she commanded the obedient king. Circling him guardedly, never turning away from him, she took tentative step after tentative step, feeling behind her with one blind hand until her fingers found the gilt edge she was searching for. "Please."

"Sarah...." It was both a warning and a plea.

She inhaled deeply, a long shuddering breath for courage. Slowly, slowly, she turned around to face the mirror. Jareth was a mosaic of colors over her disjointed shoulder. There was still a shard missing, its absence darkly conspicuous among the reflective fragments. She fingered its outline, the exact same shape and size as the jewel glittering on the pendant.⁴ No, not a jewel. A glass shard. The missing shard, which she now pressed into its niche, hissing when a jagged edge drew blood. The red splattered on the floor and carved paths upon the mirror surface, spreading outwards unheeding of gravity, pooling in minute crevices invisible to the naked eye, drawing a path amongst the labyrinthian cracks. The pattern seemed to twist, distorting and morphing under her eyes as her blood reshaped the fragments and drew out the secret. It _was_ a Labyrinth, a riddle, a secret.

It was a word.

Behind her, someone cursed. Was it distaste for the blood? or the entanglement of twisted lines that her blood revealed? They were all entangled, all their lives, all their paths crossing together into one complicated mess of a knot -- hers and Jareth's and his mother's and Linda's and Luke's. All their lives, entwined in one ineffable web, all drawn together for the same reason.

And then he was holding her tightly, holding her from behind, as if he could stop her, stop time, stop the story from unfolding. "No," came his strangled gasp. As if he'd been wounded mortally, and he would not survive the blow. "No, not this, not this, don't torture me like this."

"Let go of her!"

Some part of her watched rather calmly -- reflected in the broken mirror -- as Luke upset the sparse furnishings of the room as he sprinted forward to -- to what? Save her? -- something fell and smashed -- Jareth would never hurt her. But Luke was too slow, or perhaps time had slowed, slowed in comparison to her adrenaline charged nerves, or perhaps it had slowed deliberately. Some things must not be rushed. It was a pantomime, overly dramatized. So little, just one word, and yet the ramifications were beyond conception.

"Beloved," she said again, staring through the looking glass at the stricken Goblin King, his face dissected by bloody lines, thousands of faces crudely fitted together to form one face, and she wondered how many people he was, how many children, how many souls. "Beloved. Beloved."

Like a stone that yields beneath the endless rush of waves breaking upon it, so too did he surrender, worn by her persistent repetition. Even as he buried his face into her hair, shying away from her eyes -- always so fierce, always so fearless, always so penetrating -- daring him -- beseeching him -- he parted his lips.

"Beloved."

The mirror shattered in an explosion of light.

* * *

Sulla tua bocca lo dirò quando la luce splenderà!⁵

* * *

Or at least it seemed to shatter. Certainly light seemed to burst from its surface, prisms and rays of white light that engulfed the room in a dazzling blaze. The whiteness was so bright and piercing, almost sharp, the kind that reminded people that white is not the absence of any color, but rather the aggregate of all colors. It was presence in the room with them, enveloping them, filling their noses with an acrid smell, pushing them down onto the floor with the force of it.

Somewhere, something began to beat. A dull rhythmic pulse.

* * *

1 My little tribute to amazing authors Diana Wynne Jones and Neil Gaiman, who both used this poem in their works.

2 Trans. The Girl Who Weeps. You may have noticed that I am a big fan of Eliot, for all his Nazi sympathies, but I think not so much for what they did but that they _did things_.

3 "White Night," by Anna Akhmatova, and possibly my favorite poem.

4 Okay, so I googled the image of the pendant, and it's not a jewel at all, but for the sake of this story, let's pretend it is, please? Because I really did think it was a jewel when I watched the movie.

5."And on your mouth I will say it when the light shines

**Author's Notes:** I originally wanted Jareth to kick Luke awake, but then I realized it didn't quite fit in the scheme of things. Jareth wouldn't want to help Luke wake up. Well, the whole point is that Luke has to wake up on his own. But that's okay, let's all kick Luke for Jareth's sake. *kick*

For the people who've actually been listening to the songs I quote while reading this, I recommend "Marguerite" from the original 1991 Concept Cast album of Frank Wildhorn's "The Scarlet Pimpernel." If you have trouble finding it, don't hesitate to ask me. I'm more than happy to be email correspondents with you, as a few of you will testify :)

If you commented on the Author's Note that was in place before I submitted this chapter, unfortunately the system will not let you submit a review for this chapter. However, I'd still love to hear you thoughts -- things you hate, things you could learn to hate, things you're tepid about, things you could learn to like, etc. In which case, you can just find a chapter you haven't submitted a review for. Bypass the system! Undermine the Man! *cough


	27. Open Your Eyes

**Disclaimer: **

**Standard disclaimers apply. **

The Labyrinth is the property of Jim Henson, George Lucas, Brian Froud, as well as its script writers, including but not limited to Dennis Lee, Terry Jones, Elaine May, and A.C.H. Smith. Characters and concept are used without permission and not for profit.

Again, apologies for the lateness, it was more than a little difficult to write. My original ending didn't seem to fit anymore, so I was obliged to come up with a new one. =( So if you catch some discrepancies - typos, sentences that never end, or anything just doesn't make sense - much forgiveness asked. Simply point them out, and I'll correct them.

Also thanks to **camcalli** for helping me with this chapter!

* * *

**Chapter 25**

**Open Your Eyes**

I haven't locked the door,  
Nor lit the candles,  
You don't know, don't care,  
That tired I haven't the strength

To decide to go to bed  
Seeing the fields fade in  
The sunsent murk of pine-needles,  
And to know all is lost,

That life is a cursed hell:  
I've got drunk  
On your voice in the doorway.  
I was sure you'd come back

--Anna Akhmatova, "White Night"¹

* * *

The story draws to an end. The pen has stilled. The book is closed. There is nothing more to be done, nothing more to be said. The story is over.

But it is not true for all the characters.

The story is different upon the various tongues, told differently in each book. Different tellings, different versions, different truths, witnessed through different eyes and stored in different hearts.

For some, the story continues. A gust of wind that blows the pages open, a hand that picks up the pen and records the following events. The story of fifteen year old Sarah William ended seven years ago, passing by like a swift summer storm. She has turned the page and closed the book. That story is ended.

But the story of the Goblin King has not ended yet. No, the story has only begun, a story of wanting and of possession. It is the story of a man -- yes, a man -- haunted by dreams, without the promise of consummation. There is no conclusion to this story, _his_ story. There can be no conclusion to his story.

His story has not ended yet.

It is time to end it.

* * *

The castle was falling apart.

Stones fell out of the bulwark, wooden beams snapping and crystal sconces shattering upon impact. Already dilapidated, without the protection of magic or the strength of Jareth's will, the castle collapsed under the weight of the laws of physics. Stone could only withstand so much. Gravity refused to be denied any longer. Millennia of thwarted Time now flowed through the Labyrinth with a vengeance. Soon, there would be nothing left but a mountain of rubble, and eventually that too would disappear as rain and sun and wind weathered that down to dust. The dust too would vanish, scattered upon the winds. Given time, nothing would would remain. The Labyrinth would become little more than a ghost, existing only in the memory of disillusioned dreamers.

Luke pulled Sarah down the passage, half dragging and half carrying her limp and unresisting weight. The destruction followed them, surging forward like a devouring Beast, a vindictive tidal wave insatiable in its gluttony.

In the gallery of portraits, carved gilt frames clattered to the ground and splintered. Canvases were buried under rubble, crush and unsalvageable. Not one painting remained. All those faces, lost forever.

Sarah was oblivious to the wreckage, staring past it all with unseeing eyes, as Luke harried her. Her lips moved, shaping words that Luke did not hear or understand. But she didn't fight him. Her calmness unsettled him -- this lack of fury, this unresponsiveness, this indifferent acceptance. This surrender -- so different from her usual fervor. As if she too had died in that moment. He'd been prepared to face her hysteria, even her anger and hatred, just to prevent her from running back like some tragic heroine. He'd expected it. But she didn't. She simply... stopped. A puppet with cut strings, with nothing to orient her but Luke, and she let him. She trusted him to find their way through a world that was falling apart around them.

Everything was falling. The castle was falling apart. The proud king had fallen, and she was falling even yet -- falling down, falling apart, falling into pieces, falling in love when she had expected to fly, heavy with the weight of her body, dragged down by the force of reality. The world was falling around her, breaking into pieces that refused to fit together. Falling, falling, falling... It didn't make any sense. It didn't make any sense to fall, not at all.

And there the sound of an angry roar.

* * *

They were sprawled on the floor, faces buried protectedly against a storm that never came. The explosion was a blast of light, a presence that enveloped the three prone figures and saturated the room with colors that blended into white. Glassmakers knew that white can only be achieved when every color has been bled from the tincture, the pure distillation of light. To an artist, it is a blank sheet, a pristine canvas, unmarred by the stroke of color. To a physicist, it is an amalgam of all colors, woven so tightly that the seams become invisible without a prism to disaggregate it into a rainbow of hues. It was the existence of light, tangible and corporeal, the opposite of the black of darkness, which is the absence of light. As the white light engulfed them, Jareth had flung himself over Sarah with the assurance of his own immunity from harm, his body a shield between her softness and the grating rasp of broken glass. He had felt the explosion, felt the impact of it strike him down, felt the absence of thousands of little shards that did not lacerate his garments and tear his skin. The pressure was a heavy weight, flaring around them. Then -- nothing -- silence.

No, wait, something, something very faint. A dull throbbing, erratic and yet determined.

Sarah stirred under him. "Jareth?"

It was louder now... louder and tangible. He could _feel it...._

Suddenly he groaned, a keening acoustic ache. Rolling onto his back, he clutched his chest frantically. Fingers tangled in silk, clawing at the fabric there in frenzied need for release and rending them into shreds. Nails scratched the skin underneath, digging into his flesh and leaving angry welts. It _hurt_. He'd forgotten. He'd forgotten it could feel like this. The physical brutality paled in comparison to this pain. If he could delve into his chest, inside of himself, inside of his body, open it up and expose his insides -- expose, unearth, extricate, exhume -- perhaps this pain would go away. Agony distorted his features into an ugly mask, scrunched up tightly in concentration against a force only he could see and feel, his knuckles white and strained under his skin.

And he began to laugh.

He laughed until the tears ran down his pale drawn face and he had no more breath left, and still he laughed. He doubled and twisted from the force of it, spasms wracking his thin form. It frightened Sarah. There was no pleasure in it, nothing like the amused chuckles he'd express at her expense. It was the wild frenzied laughter of a man who has lost everything and laughs at the joke that Life has condescended to play on him. It is the laughter that contains no mirth, but finds humor in the sadistic and hopeless and ruination. _His_ ruination. He laughed because of the pain. He laughed because he could feel it, and more, he laughed because he now knew what his mother had called him. Of course he never found it! Pushing away Sarah's concern, Jareth laughed and laughed until he had no voice left and could only cough -- one arm wrapped around his center, holding himself together, the other pressed flat against the hard stone floor -- and still he shook with silent cynical glee.

Six thousand years!

Luke had climbed to his feet warily during Jareth's hysteria, his attention captured by the mirror. The cracks had vanished mysteriously, the surface intact and perfect, and he saw the room and Sarah and Jareth and himself reflected back to him, their imaged pressed upon its surface and into its depths. It was like looking into a window onto themselves, and Luke was struck with the sudden uncomfortable idea that perhaps the real story was happening on the other side of the mirror and that they were the reflections. The Sarah on the other side was the real Sarah, and all his emotions were shadows of the real Luke's feelings. Perhaps they were only a dream, dreamed by the real Sarah and the real Jareth and the real Luke on the other side of the glass. All the objects in the room too were reflections, reproductions composed of light particles -- impressions -- images -- shadows.

And Luke thought then of vampires. Bela Lugosi. Dracula. Black and white horror movies and Bram Stoker's 19th century gothic horror novel that delved into the darkness of the Carpathian mountains. Superstitious beliefs that intertwined with Orthodox sacraments -- rituals of the consummation of blood and flesh -- the Eucharist -- to conceive beautiful unworldly fiends that preyed upon the beautiful and the pure. They lingered between life and death and chained to the material world without souls to guide them to Heaven or Hell. No mirror could hold them, for a reflection was the testimony of the soul, rendered visible to the physical world through the magic of quicksilver and glass, an alchemical distillation of light -- of shadows -- into truth. But Jareth was no vampire, he was the Goblin King, cloaked by night and crowned with stars. He had a soul. His reflection proclaimed his very soul.

But perhaps the mirror did not show the soul.

"Do you hear that?" Jareth gasped amidst his hysterics.

"Hear what, Jareth?" Sarah asked, her voice almost shrill with panic as she tried to force him to calm down, to stop laughing, to tell her everything would be alright.

When had the world become the parody of an Edgar Allen Poe story? But it wasn't a trick played on his ears by nerves strung high with paranoia and guilt. It was no delusion. It was there, intruding into his consciousness, rippling outwards until it filled his mind with a crimson haze. Each pulsation proclaimed its existence. He placed a finger to his lips -- shhh -- his other hand clasped against that terrible ache inside him -- if he could hold it in, hold it down, suppress it. Listen, he said without words. Listen. Listen.

And he looked past her towards his dark haired adversary. Something passed in that look, something that she could not catch -- a signal, a message, an understanding between the two men where there had once been only contempt and distaste. It might have been a plea. And he said, "Luke, you promised."

Slowly, Luke nodded. _Yes._

From the smallest finger of his left hand, Jareth drew a small gold ring, its red stone a drop of blood in the light. It could have been the twin to the one she wore herself, but duller and cheaper, its stone only colored glass. He held it to Sarah, both of them kneeling on the stony floor, and she knew immediately, without a doubt, that it was hers. The ring in his hand was her ring, the ring she had left behind seven years ago, and that the ring she wore was a replica. _A present_, he had pronounced. A gift. A pledge. He was no longer laughing. "Take it. It's yours, the one that belonged to you," he told her. "I knew you would not have accepted mine unless you thought it was yours, and I wanted to keep a part of you with me. But I can't keep it. Take it and give it to someone else. Give it to Luke."

She took it with numb fingers, a heavy weight in her hand. "I don't understand..." she implored. A faint rustle of clothes and the muted tap of shoes were the sounds of Luke shifting around, but all her attention was riveted upon the red red stone in her hand and the supplicating king.

"_Principessa di morte!"_ he said with a gentle brush of his fingers against her face. She was warm to his touch, warm and alive and bright, and he was so cold, so very cold.... "_È l'alba, e amore nasce col sole! Sei mia! Tu puoi perdermi se vuoi!"_²

The world erupted, red and painful and violent.

Jareth closed his eyes, his breath a ragged sigh, and fell.

And Sarah saw Luke, except there were two of him, separated by the glass, one outside and one inside the mirror, twin vengeful angels in tattered shirt sleeves and bloodied collars, their expressions terrible and harrowing and regretful, except they were the same and not the same.

One held what had been a beautiful rose with petals the color of midnight blue, wilted, dying, petals scattered, its root unearthed, exposed, stripped, vulnerable....

The other held a heart in his hands, pierced through with the pointed edge of a golden pendant that was all too familiar, bloody droplets dripping through his fingers onto the floor.

And Sarah saw that Death stood in the room.

_Between the idea  
And the reality..._

_Between the conception  
And the creation..._

_Life is very long..._

_Between the potency  
And the existence  
Between the essence  
And the descent  
Falls the Shadow_

An alchemical distillation of truth from shadows using mercury and glass.

* * *

Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain,  
Thou gav'st me thine not to give back again.

--William Shakespeare, Sonnet 22

* * *

The roar sounded again, deep and raw and terrifying.

It conjured memories of monsters in his closet and under his bed, and more recently, a large red beast tearing after him through a stony labyrinth, its wide jaws a gluttonous void. It petrified Luke, paralyzing him with fear. It also slowed the rocks in their descent. as if impeded by some invisible force, dropped into viscous air. What rocks hadn't fallen yet, they clung adamantly to their mortar framework, hesitating against the call of gravity. If anything, the roar seemed to calm the rocks against whatever agitation had shaken them out of their cozy niches. _Gravity is a lie_, it seemed to tell them, and the rocks believed it. It was a roar that could stop a hurtling meteor.

Sarah roused, as if she'd been called back from a long way away. "Ludo," she murmured, then louder, questing. "Ludo!"

There was an answering cry from somewhere outside. "Sa-wah!"

"It _is_ Ludo! Ludo!" she cried again, shrugging Luke off her as she straightened up. Her eyes brightened a little, a tiny flare of recognition and hope. "It's okay, it's Ludo!" She began to run. With no alternative, he followed her. Somehow they managed to scrabble through the dilapidating passage with little trouble, unhindered by the crashing bulwarks around them, and Luke almost imagined the rocks rolled out of their way as they ran, clearing a path that led them to the glittering morning waiting outside.

It seemed an eternity since he had seen the sunlit sky, and both he and Sarah were momentarily blinded by the unfamiliar rays. He'd forgotten how bright sunlight was, and how warm. They washed down on the two adventurers, banishing the coldness of the castle, and Luke closed his eyes to savor the sensation.

The rumbles faded into silence.

Somewhere nearby, a familiar gravelly voice said, "Ah well, there goes the castle again." It didn't sound particularly sorry. If anything, it was almost cheerful.

"Sir Hoggle!" a shriller voice admonished. This voice also touched a chord in his memory. "How canst thou speak so?"

Luke opened his eyes unwillingly.

"What, it's true!" a dwarf was arguing, his white hair sticking out erratically from under a leather skull cap as he scowled at a fox terrier wearing an eyepatch and plumed hat. Next to them, a large shaggy beast, horns curving wickedly above his head, vermillion fur dusty, looked on mournfully. The dwarf crossed his arms obstinately and kicked a stray pebble. "Or ye want me ter say it's still standing?"

The big red beast, horns curving wickedly, gave Hoggle a mournful look and shook his head. "King gone," it said with childlike grief. "Rocks sad. Ludo sad."

Sarah had been staring at the wreckage, her back to the motley group. Even the briar had fallen, dragged down and buried, dark red petals like drops of blood shed by a wounded beast. A breeze teased her hair, but without an spirit, and faded into stillness. "He is, isn't he?" she said after a while in a hollow voice. No one knew how to answer her.

Sarah began to scream. A shrill piercing keen that stabbed the air and burst eardrums, as only spoiled brats could muster in fits of righteous anger, and much like the screams of children, it accomplished nothing.

"It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not _fair!_" she wailed.

The stones yielded no response, not even the echoes of her own voice. After a while, Sarah stopped, panting from her exertion. When she turned to face her companions, her eyes were dry. "Sorry," she said.

The fox terrier was the first to recover, sweeping his plumed hat elegantly as he bowed before her. "My lady, thou hast returned!" he piped. "And thy valiant knight!" he added after a momentary pause, his one eye taking in the ragged sight of Luke.

Luke felt compelled to say something. "Um. Hi."

"Friend?" rumbled Ludo.

"Um, I guess?" Luke ventured tentatively. He hadn't forgotten the sensation of being chased through petrified passages.

"Yes, that's Luke," Sarah answered patiently. "He's a friend too."

Hoggle sniffed disdainfully. _Another friend!_ As if she didn't have enough friends already. Luke glanced at the dwarf, and for a moment, they both stared at each other. Then he nodded and looked away. They might both be Sarah's friends, but they would never be friends with each other. They understood each other completely.

But Ludo and Didymus seemed pleased by the new acquaintance. "Well, Sir Lucas, I salute you," Sir Didymus chirped. "The friends of my lady Sarah shall be mine too."

"Um, thanks," Luke said, still taken aback by the miniature knight's courtly manners. He didn't know if he should bow back. It seemed so... hammy. He gestured vaguely in response instead. "Um, so, I'm glad to meet you too and all that, but how do we get home?"

"Er, I don't know," Didymus admitted after a moment's pause, reluctant to admit his ignorance. "I've never been outside the Labyrinth before. Aboveground is a distant realm I have not the pleasure to explore. My lady, how didst thou return home last time?"

Sarah chewed her lip in concentration. "Last time I was here, there was a room like one of those paintings by Escher, with the staircases that go on forever and forever, and I... I jumped," she said slowly. "The world fell apart, and we were... alone somewhere that was suspended. I spoke the right words. Then I was home, and he was an owl, flying out of the window. It was as if we'd never left my house in the first place."

"The right words?"

"I'd summoned him with words, I had to banish him with words too," Sarah explained. Something about her tone discouraged further questions. "Besides, I don't think it'll work this time. J- The castle's fallen, but we're still here. We'll have to find another way home."

Luke noticed that Hoggle had been oddly quiet during the conversation, his eyes shifting away almost guiltily and foot scuffing the dirt. "Do you know how we can get home?" he asked the dwarf.

"I don't know nothing!" Hoggle protested.

"Hoggle...." Sarah knelt down next to him and picking up his hand, the one that wore her bracelet, looked him in the eye. He fidgeted under her gaze, remembering how she'd bullied him into subservience before. She was going to do it again... "Hoggle, you know the Labyrinth better than anyone!"

And drat him, he couldn't say no to her. Not to his first friend. She's forgiven him when he'd betrayed her. "I knows it," he mumbled miserably. "Its how we sends home all thems that lose. They goes in, and we never sees them again."

* * *

Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,  
All strange wonders that befell thee....

* * *

The Ascent was a passage in the subterranean tunnels, silent and sinister and unlit. When Luke kicked a pebble down the tunnel, they listened for the echoes of its trajectory. They didn't hear anything. Even Ludo's voice was reduced a whisper. The tunnel seemed to swallow all light and all sound, devouring them until only shadows were left, too weak to be distinguished. It was all emptiness and nothingness, and all the more terrifying for the lack. It was impossible to look into that darkness and imagine that it ended, that on the other side was a sun and a moon and _life_.

"You, ah, really going in there?" Hoggle asked. He'd asked the same thing once, poised then at the entrance of the Labyrinth.

Sarah looked down the yawning mouth resolutely and almost smiled. "I'm afraid we have to," she repeated.

"I was afraid you'd say that...." muttered Luke.

She gave him a push, half jokingly, but only half. "You just solved the Labyrinth, act like it," she chided. "Don't tell me you journeyed through dangers unknown and hardships unnumbered, defeated the Goblin King, and you're afraid of the dark?"

"And rats," he volunteered. "I can't abide rats."

"The fair lady is right, Sir Lucas, where is thy courage?" Didymus trilled. "Wilt thou cower in the face of danger? To stare Death in the face and conquer it! And even then, why shouldst thou fear it? to die would be an awfully big adventure...."

"Besides, rats ain't nothing compared ter what ye should be 'fraid of," Hoggle interrupted. "Just remember, Sarah, should you need us...."

Sarah did smile. "I'll always need you guys. I don't know why, but I do. So don't go far, okay?"

"Goodbye, Sa-wah."

Holding hands, Sarah and Luke stepped into the tunnel.

Hoggle, Sir Didymus, and Ludo vanished as the shadows engulfed them.

The darkness lurking in those walls was complete, betraying nothing of up and down or left to right. Even the silence of was absolute, their footsteps betraying no sound, and Luke began to doubt whether he walked on solid ground or on something else. Limbs felt disjointed from the torso, the mind disembodied. Only the pain of fatigue reminded Luke that he had a body, and the small press of a hand in his that Sarah walked beside him. On and on they walked, always waiting and always hoping for a reprieve from the nothingness.

"We're never going to make it home, are we?" he asked dejectedly at last, after an eternity it seemed. In the darkness, his voice was strangely hollow.

For a moment, he thought wildly that perhaps he was talking to himself and that he was imagining that he held a hand. Her voice washed over him like a wave of relief. "No," she said quietly. "We're just not going in the right direction."

"What do you mean, the right direction?" Luke flared, almost letting go in his urge to flail his arms. But Sarah was wise enough to grab his hand tightly, and he calmed down. "We've been walking for what feels like _hours_, maybe forever, and we're not getting _anywhere_"

"Sometimes the way forward is also the way back."

"What the hell does that even mean?"

Sarah stopped walking. He felt the tension of her hand pulling him into a standstill, and he stopped too, not daring to move in case he lost his bearings in the disorienting nothingness. Then strangely, he felt her start to turn, and she was turning him too until they were -- he thought, it was so difficult to tell when he couldn't see -- facing backwards. She said, "It means we stop taking things for granted and go back the way we came."

"Are you sure?" he asked doubtfully.

"Don't worry," she said. "It'll be a piece of cake."

Five minutes later, they emerged out of Sarah's coat closet into her front hall. Merlin began to bark.

* * *

He who was living is now dead  
We who were living are now dying  
With a little patience

--T.S. Elot _The Wasteland_, "V. What the Thunder Said"

* * *

Sarah blinked rapidly, spots clearing from her vision as the light spread out and faded, revealing the audience that had climbed to its feet in a thunderous ovation. In the front row, Toby jumped up and down in excitement, a grin splitting his chubby face in two, almost a miniature gentleman in his rented tux, an effect spoiled by his flailing arms as he clapped as loudly as he could. Next to him, her father was the very picture of paternal pride, and even her stepmother looked pleased. She faintly picked out her mother and Jeremy a few seats down -- beautiful and poised -- glamorous -- members of audience while she, Sarah, stood in the spotlight, the focus of their awesome attention. The faces beyond the first row obscured, out of focus and dimmed as though peering through a fogged lens, a veil woven by the streams of light.

"Sarah!" the stage manager hissed from the wings. "It's the curtain call!"

The play was over.

Tonight had passed in a blur of scenes she never saw, of costumes she didn't remember changing, of dialogue she didn't hear. She had spoken her right words without knowing them, pulled out of some inner recess of her mind, unbidden and not forgotten. It had always been more difficult to forget the words. Despite the shock of stumbling out of her coat closet into her apartment -- despite her mother's inexplicable presence and irrational relief -- despite a lapse of thirteen days in her memory -- despite a million thoughts unrelated to the play -- she had managed to say her words. It was if the part of her that was Sarah slept and dreamt about a girl named Beauty.

Feeling as if she were moving underwater -- as if she had just emerged from the water -- her limbs sluggish and heavy and _tired_ -- as if she were an old woman -- as if she'd just woken up from a long and vivid dream -- and perhaps she had -- she bowed and curtsied with the rest of the cast, then again with Patrick and Kyle and Amelia, again with Patrick, and then by herself. She waved and smiled and let the applause wash over her, loud and jarring and forceful, until it was cut short by the drop of the curtain.

"I can't believe we did it! It's all over!"

"I can't wait to get out of this costume!"

"Party at the underground club! You know, the new one on the corner of...."

Feeling misplaced -- displaced -- among that happily chattering crowd, cast members she'd never bothered to befriend beyond a superficial work relationship, who were now congratulating each other heartily, Sarah slipped away to her dressing room. Back by the dressing rooms, the theatre bustled still, but with less vigor, as the scene changers stored the sets for the next performance and dressers hung up costumes while waiting for the actors to come back.

"Hope you like the flowers," Luke said, shuffling almost awkwardly in front of her dressing room door with a bouquet of irises and orchids and baby's breaths. "I thought I should still give them to you anyways, even though I know that... well, anyways, I hope you like the flowers."

She took them hesitantly, almost awkwardly. Words danced on her tongue, but they were all hollow and superfluous. Because Luke was sweet, and for his youth, he wasn't naive, and he didn't need to hear the words. So instead she simply said, "I'm sorry."

He shook his head, sticking hands in his pockets to forcibly refrain from ruining his gelled coif. His tone was entirely devoid of bitterness. "No, don't be, because it's just the way it is, right? I probably won't like you half as much if you could just go out with me after... after all that happened. And I couldn't be happy with myself either. Besides, I'm just glad that you don't blame me. So, will you be okay?"

She picked at the flowers absent-mindedly, smoothing out the crinkles in the cellophane wrapper. "I honestly don't know," she said at last. "I think, eventually, I will be. At least, I need to believe that I will be. I have to be. You?"

"I'll probably get over it a bit faster than you. Probably in another few days, I'll just convince myself it was all a dream, except for these teeth marks in my arm," he said, his expression rueful as he rubbed his arm. "Which I will probably also convince myself was the result of a rabid dog. My neighbor happens to own a Rottweiler, so it'll be a convincing lie. But you probably won't ever forget, will you?"

He was halfway down the corridor when she called out. "Luke? Thank you."

He looked surprised. "Whatever for?"

Sarah shrugged. "You know... everything. For coming to get me. For getting us out of the castle. For helping Jareth. I mean, it was what he wanted."

Luke smiled, just a little. "It was, wasn't it? He was a strange person."

"He was," she agreed, smiling back. "So I'll see you around?"

"Definitely."

* * *

So I would have had him leave,  
So I would have had her stand and grieve,  
So he would have left  
As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised,  
As the mind deserts the body it has used.  
I should find  
Some way incomparably light and deft,  
Some way we both should understand,  
Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.

--T.S. Eliot, "La Figlia Che Piange"³

* * *

"Sarah! Sarah!" a little figure hurtled through the darkness, a comet bringing destruction and mayhem, and crashed into her, crushing layers of skirts as Toby squeezed her around the waist. "You were so good, sis," he declared proudly. "And really pretty in your costume. All the boys in my class wish you were their sister, but you're _my_ sister."

"Aww, thanks Toby," Sarah said, leaning down to hug him back, not caring that if the flowers in her arms were crushed. "So you liked the play? Not too boring or too girly for you?"

"Nope, I stayed awake the whole way through!" he preened, thrusting out his chest as manfully as only a boy of eight years could. "Oh, look, I wanted to show you this! I'm doing an assignment on _goblins_ for English class, like the goblin stories you used to tell, and I was printing out this picture, except _another_ picture came out -- this one! He's really handsome, like a prince, isn't he? -- and the printer wouldn't stop, and Dad got really annoyed because it was wasting ink, but it wasn't my fault, so he didn't yell at me, so it was okay, and I brought you a copy because you like the weird stuff, and maybe this guy is the King of Goblins, since I was trying to print out a picture of goblins anyways and -"

Sarah's fingers clutched the printout, and she stood up so that Toby wouldn't see her expression. "Is this one for me?" she asked.

"Yeah! I got lots at home, I'm going to bring them to class to show Miss Henson and tell her how the goblins messed with my printer. Dad can vouch for me too!"

Sarah laughed breathlessly and folded the paper, tucking it into her bouquet. In the dim lighting, no one noticed that her face was a little paler under her stage make-up. "That will be a presentation! Listen, I have to go change, let's go find Dad and Karen, okay?"

"That's okay, I know where they are! The theater's not that scary. I can get back to the foyer without help!" Toby boasted as he ran off, dashing to find whatever new adventures lurked in wait in the shadows, hidden niches waiting to be explored, unknown worlds waiting to be mastered. Sarah watched him run, and she wondered idly what sort of goblin he would have made. Yet she didn't regret her actions -- neither the choice nor the wish.

"So are you coming?" Amelia asked, sticking her head into the room. And paused. There were roses _everywhere_ -- red and pink and white and yellow and dyed lavender, the kind you get when you stick a white rose in colored water. "Wow. That's a lot of roses. Who are they from?"

Sarah paused in the middle of helping her dresser struggle with a jammed zipper. "Huh? Oh, the roses? I have no idea, there aren't any cards or anything."

Assured that she wasn't interrupting anything -- no secret lovers -- Amelia sauntered in. She was still wearing her costume. She looked as if she intended to wear it all night long. "We're all going to this club that's opening tonight, for the after party, Pat knows someone who knows the owner. Laura, you're coming too, right?" She nodded at the dresser.

The zipper unjammed, finally, and Sarah shimmied out of the silk confection, which was duly carried off to be hung up properly. "I can't, my stepfather's throwing me a party, I have to go" she said ruefully, then looked up brightly. "I know, why don't you guys come to my stepfather's party? You should come."

"With all the posh people?" Amelia made a face as she checked her make-up in the mirror. It was a club, no one would care if she wore stage make-up, not like the nobby crowd at Sarah's stepfather's party. "Not my scene. I like to get down and dirty. Oh, here's a bouquet that's not made of roses, how nice. _Sarah, who's this?_"

Sarah snatched the paper out of Amelia's hands. "Apparently a computer virus," the dark haired girl answered, tucking it into her bra, just in case. "My brother gave that to me. Apparently there are ghosts in the machinery or something, and instead of the goblins he was printing out, he got that. He gave me a copy."

"I don't believe you. So, are you dating this guy? He has nice cheekbones."

"Definitely not. He doesn't exist. It's just a glitch in the program or something. You can ask my brother, he's out there in the foyer," Sarah retorted, removing hair pins from her skull, hissing at the sudden relief as curls tumbled down. "He'll give you a very long and detailed explanation."

"You're no fun, are you? Anyways, if you change your mind, here's the address." Grabbing an eyeliner pencil, she scribbled messy instructions on a Kleenex and made a show of tucking the tissue into Sarah's open purse. "We'll probably still be there when the stores open in the morning."

"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

The redhead girl skipped out of the room, glittery with silver sequins, and Sarah pulled the printout back out again, smoothing out the creases on the page. Amelia was right, he did have nice cheekbones. Carefully, she tucked the picture into the frame of the mirror. Toby probably would have another copy on him, just to show around. She'd ask him if she could have that too, for her apartment.

Then she turned off the light, stepped out of the room, and closed the door behind her

* * *

She turned away, but with the autumn weather  
Compelled my imagination many days,  
Many days and many hours:  
Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.  
And I wonder how they should have been together!

--T.S. Eliot, "La Figlia Che Piange"

* * *

Midnight found her, both restive and hesitant, lingering outside the entrance of the club, still wearing her fancy pale green dress under her jacket and red scarf, staring up in silent disbelief at the neon sign glaring above its doors. Behind her, the flickering lamps illuminated the empty street with eldritch light, and beyond, a filigree network of lights that made up the cityscape at nighttime, its beauty belying the cold concrete and iron framework of the urban squalor.

_The Underground_. Well... it was certainly below ground level, dark and nefarious and pulsing with music. Best of all, it wasn't Jeremy's party.

She couldn't stand it anymore, all the stifling small talk and monotonous conversation and the hollow praises, offered by Jeremy's fashionable friends. She accepted them graciously with a fixed smile, playing the part of the gracious and flattered actress, letting the words wash over her, not really hearing what they said nor understanding what she said in reply, when what she really wanted was to scream and throw down her champagne flute and watch it smash into fragments -- smash all the champagne flutes in the party, spill the champagne, sweep all the platters of catered food and send everything crashing onto the carpetted floor. She wanted to destroy that illusion of civilization and culture, because none of it really mattered, because nothing would ever matter again, because the Goblin King was dead. And yet somehow all these socialites were able to stand around in their beautiful clothes and drink imported champagne from fancy glasses and talk about something as tedious and boring like _a play,_ and no one realized that she was in pain. No one realized anything. Everything seemed both surreal and dull at the same time. Unimportant. Insubstantial.

She'd slipped away. It was very easy. After their initial fawning over her, the guests had irrevocably turned their attention back to the glamorous Jeremy and Linda, and she had quietly gathered her coat and scarf, careful not to say goodbye to anyone, and walked out the front door while her mother asked Jeremy to tell that really funny story about some incident at another party. Yet once away, she realized that she didn't want to go home either, to an apartment filled with roses.

So she'd come here instead, where the rest of the cast were celebrating the successful end to an opening night, to a club called _The Underground_.

Music blasted over her when she entered, dark and seductive and _insistent_, the force of its vibrations washing against her body in tidal waves, threatening to pull her under. Mingled in the strains were shouts and laughter and the clink of beer glasses, the sounds of people enjoying themselves loudly and robustly. Then the stairs came to an end, and she stepped into the main room, and stopped.

Everything... _glittered._

The decor was disturbing. The walls looked as if they were carved from stone, roughly hewn and littered with tiny crystals and minerals and segmented by subterranean roots that crept down the faux earthy panels and dangled from the dirt ceiling. The corridors were tunnels intersecting and merging, and the corners were decorated with crude faces that watched and measured the festivities with dark holes for eyes. Everything sparkled and glittered in the dancing lights.

Then the people solidified into existence, a great jostling crowd that foisted itself against the sense, neither ethereally nor sinisterly beautiful, but coarse and rough and _human_, dressed for fun, fashionable according to early 90s rock culture. And the cavern became a nightclub again, a mixture of colors and noise. On the stage, someone was singing, his voice a deep croon, his features obscured in a blinding wash of white.

_All my violence  
raining tears upon the sheets,  
I'm bewildered  
For we're strangers when we meet_

_Blank screen TV  
preening ourselves in the snow  
Forget my name  
But I'm over you_

"You came! I knew you'd show up!" Amelia screamed through the noise, barreling through the crowd and hugging Sarah with unusual familiarity before dragging her towards the stage. "Awesome, I won my bet! I bet Patrick dishwashing duty for a whole month that you'd show up. You came just in time too, King's singing, you almost missed it! He does an amazing David Bowie impersonation too. Last time, he got mobbed by the girls after singing 'China Girl.'"

_Cold tired fingers  
Tapping out your memories  
Halfway sadness  
Dazzled by the new_

"Who's King?" Sarah bellowed, unwinding her scarf and shrugging out of her coat.

"He owns the club! It's fabulous, isn't it? It really feels like we're under the ground, doesn't it?"

Amelia was right, Sarah thought. The singer -- King, apparently -- _was_ good, his voice a good imitation of David Bowie's dulcet tones, smooth and sexy and masculine. In his voice, the lyrics became more than words, they became a story, transcending the physical shape of their sounds and metamorphosed, transfigured, into something alive and real and expansive.

_All your regrets ride rough-shod over me  
I'm so glad that we're strangers when we meet  
I'm so thankful that we're stranger when we meet  
I'm in clover, for we're strangers when we meet  
__Heel head over, but we're strangers when we meet_⁴

And she noticed then that under the blinding stage lights, the man's hair was golden although short and slicked back from his handsome angular face, where the lights drew deep shadows -- a face so similar to the picture she carried in her purse -- and the floor seemed to fall out from under her, and she was falling...

"I need a drink," she said breathlessly. "Where's the bar?"

The alcohol burned her throat on its way down, reassuringly sharp and coarse, and she slammed the glass back down on the bar as she restrained herself from coughing the drink back up, whatever it was that she'd drunk -- she'd picked up the first drink and quaffed it unknowingly and not caring. She was going to get drunk, because there didn't seem to be any other way to make it through the night.

"Are you sure you want to do that?" someone -- he -- asked, sitting on the stool next to her and watching her with disconcerting absorption bordering on fixation. "That's a beautiful dress, by the way. How does it stay up?"

The dress was the color known in the fashion industry as sea foam green. It was the palest shade of green, the pale froth that tinged the crashing waves of the stormy ocean, violent spray illuminated by the moonshine before it disintegrates into nothing. The skirt was thick with layers of gauze, the topmost layer a thin net caught with tiny crystals, a fairy's dress, airy and ethereal and incandescent. His question was directed at the strapless bodice, which revealed a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage and creamy expanse of back.

"With a lot of modesty," she replied, finding shelter in a movie quotation. Fortified with liquid courage, she met his eyes fearlessly and glared. Luck was on her side. He sat with his back to the light, and all she could see were different layers of shadows and the gleam of a cheekbone. One beautifully sculpted cheekbone. Even so she recognized him. "So you're the King."

He grinned, shadows twisting to create the semblance of mirth. "Not the King, just King," he corrected, leaning against the bar and propping his face with one white hand, all body language and attention directed towards her without mercy. "Although I suppose I am in charge of this hell hole. I won't mind if you call me your Highness."

"Your name is King?" Her tone was incredulous.

King shrugged, narrow but muscled shoulders under his starched white shirt and set off by the line of his black vest. Part of Sarah's thinking process, the part that had yielded to the alcohol, observed that he wasn't a king, he was a duke -- the Thin White Duke, preferably without the cocaine addiction. "It's part of my name," he confessed, his smile never wavering.

"What's your whole name?"

"You know, I don't think I'm going to tell you just yet. In fact, I'll tell you in the morning when you have breakfast with me," he answered delicately, conjuring a glass of water with a crook of his finger at the bartender. "Naturally, I'd like for you to not have a hangover when that happens, so won't you be a good girl and drink this glass of water?"

"How do I know you haven't drugged it?" she demanded, crossing her arms. Something felt very familiar about this situation. "I don't know you, how do I know I can trust you?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Do you though?"

"Do I what?"

"Trust me."

"No. Not one bit."

"Good, you shouldn't," he rejoined quite cheerfully. "But as a show of good faith, I will take a sip from this glass, just to show you that it's not drugged. There. Now will you drink it, or will I have to force it down your neck for you?"

This golden haired stranger seemed adamant on this point, smiling at her with his head tilted, almost daring her to argue. His expression said he welcomed a confrontation. Something tickled her mind, an almost memory that she couldn't quite grasp. Like trying to hold moonlight in your hand -- you opened your palm and saw it illuminated, but you couldn't touch it, couldn't feel its shape. Sarah resigned herself. As she guzzled the water, she seemed to hear him say "The problem with our situation is that even if you don't know me, _I know you_." But the music thundered, mixed with the shouts and laughter of a hundred drunken carousers, and she couldn't trust her ears. Moonlight streaming through the window, insubstantial and inpalpable. She remembered a legend she'd heard once, that sleeping in the moonlight engendered madness, hence the term lunacy. Lunar. Luna. The moon. The disease of the moon.

"If I get a hangover, it's because I got drunk, which is kind of the whole point," she told him matter-of-factly. "I don't want to be sober."

He plucked the empty glass from her hand and set it back on the bar. "Now, why don't we want that?" he asked.

"You wouldn't believe me."

"No?"

The revelers were dancing now, twists and shimmies and gyrations in time to the thumping bass. This dancing was not the carefully regulated movement of aristocratic ballrooms, but the primeval urges of the body to express itself through movement. It reminded Sarah of _Dirty Dancing_, Baby bursting in upon a secret dance party and agog at the sight of bodies moving in ways she'd never imagined. In the center of the floor, someone paid tribute to Patrick Swayze's dancing skills.

"No," Sarah said.

"In that case -- Cassie, can you get that bottle? Yes, _that one_ -- I shall have to help you. If you're going to drink yourself into happy inebriation, at least do it right," he informed her seriously, producing two glasses almost magically on the counter and filling them with something that shone like liquid gold or molten sunlight. "Now this is a wine that I was saving for something special, and I think this just might qualify."

She picked up her glass reluctantly. "The last time I had wine, I regretted it..."

"Well, good thing I'm here to stop you from doing anything stupid, isn't it? Now, what shall we toast to? To wishes that come true, perhaps?" He raised his arm. Disco lights shone through the golden elixir, refracted and disaggregated and transmuted.

"I don't believe in wishes."

King lowered his glass, his expression perplexed. "No? How about to puppies? To flowers? To fairies and goblins? Ah, I know. I heard that your play has opened successfully tonight, something about _Beauty and the Beast_, so let's drink to Beauty."

She couldn't say no to that. "To Beauty," she repeated. Clinking glasses, she drank deeply, feeling the wine trickle warmly down her throat, but without the scalding burn of her earlier drink. It was like drinking sunshine, golden and joyful and sultry.

"So why don't you believe in wishes?" King asked, setting down his empty glass.

"When you know you can't have what you want, what's the profit in wishing?" she asked, shrugging.

"And what do you want?"

And to both their complete surprise, Sarah began to cry.

"You sure you alright, love?" he asked, slightly panicking, and at a complete loss, pulled her into his arms comfortingly, only to have her cry harder to his utter bewilderment and bemusement. "Shit, what do I do? Please don't cry. I couldn't stand if you cried."

"I-I-I'm sorry, I can't-- I can't --can't -- can't seem to stop, I don't usually cry like this," she sobbed, blowing her nose into the napkins that he pushed bewilderedly into her hands. "And I don't know w-why-why. It's been a really long day, and I think I was in shock-ck-ck, and y-y-yo-ou're being really nice to me, and I'm probably ruining your night by breaking down like this, an-an-and -- and -- you don't even know me and you have to deal with this, I'm really sorry. And I'm sorry I got your shirt wet."

"That's alright, I'm sending you the dry cleaning bill," King joked reassuringly. "Maybe I should take you home."

Sarah sniffed miserably. "It's your party, you should stay. I can take a cab ho--"

"What, and let you go home alone at this time of the night, you a pretty all by yourself? I couldn't live with myself. The blokes can lock up after themselves, I just own the place, I don't have to be there all the time," he interrupted smoothly, fishing a handkerchief out of a pocket and pressing it into her hand. "Probably more environmentally friendly if I let you use this. You wait here while I go get your coat."

She nodded obediently, watching him disappear into the crowd at she dabbed at her eyes with an incredibly lacy handkerchief. It was rather difficult finding an area with enough fabric to soak up her tears. At least it wasn't monogrammed. Sarah wasn't sure what she thought about a man who used lacy handkerchiefs.

Oh, yes, she knew exactly what she thought.

She stared at the little square of fabric, aglow and violet under the black lights, and dropped it. It floated onto the dirty floor, disappearing under the heels of stilettos and boots. It hadn't turned into anything dangerous, like a snake or a goblin. It was an ordinary handkerchief. _Except with more lace than is normal or even sane!_ she told herself. Alarmed and not a little confused, she pushed through the crowd, desperate for something, for air, for room to breathe. Her heels clattered on the staircase as she climbed upwards.

"Wait! Sarah, wait!"

She couldn't disobey that voice. It transformed her name into a prayer, gripping her, soundly, both pleading and commandingly, and because she had not _told him her name._ So she waited, unable to push open the door, listening to the sound of his footsteps ascending until they stop, a step or two below her, perhaps waiting for her to turn around and face him, but she couldn't. She wouldn't. She didn't.

"It's cold out there, Sarah, and you're not wearing your coat," he said, draping the heavy garment around her shoulders. His palms were a heavy, reassuring weight as he held her lightly, impersonally, just as a person holds a bar of soap, afraid that it'll slip away if he squeezed too tightly, and gently, he turned her to face him. "I also told you, I'm not letting you go out there by yourself."

A brush of cashmere against her cheek as he wound her scarf around her neck, pulling her forward with the action, until she could hear the whistle of his breath and her skin tingled with the propinquity of their bodies despite layers of cloth inbetween. "I'm not letting you go anywhere without me," he added, tucking the ends inside the lapels of her coat, his hands careful to never touch her bare skin. The whole time, she watched the corner of his mouth, watched it move as he spoke, as if trying to commit each nuance of shadow -- the texture of his skin -- the sheen of his lips -- the faint traces of scruff to her memory, or perhaps she was comparing them to another recollection. "Or your scarf."

"What's your full name, King?" she asked.

His hands paused, resting against her clavicles through layers of wool and nylon lining. He disoriented her with his proximity, because this close, she could smell him, and he smelled like no cologne she knew. If only the light was bright enough to see his eyes...

"Eriol," he said at last, quietly, resignedly, with a heavy sigh. "Go ahead, laugh. My name is Eriol King."

Someone -- a clubber -- brushed past them through the door, and a beam of eerie streetlight fell across his face, illuminating eyes that were the most beautiful she'd ever seen. Even though the shape of the eyebrows was wrong. Not wrong. Different. _Human_.

Sarah blinked, and then she did laugh. Quietly at first, building in volume until she could no longer keep it inside her, she laughed. Her shoulders shook with mirth. She laughed and laughed and laughed, not because his named was funny, but because it was _his name_, and it was wonderful, everything was wonderful. They weren't strangers, how could he be a stranger when she knew him, she knew him by heart, and everything was falling into place, and she wasn't falling, she was _flying_.

_Eriol King.... Errol King.. Erlking..._ Erlkönig. The Elfin King.

And Sarah put her arms around his neck and said to him, "I can't call you that, and I can't call you King either. I think I'll call you Jareth."

And Jareth smiled.

"As you wish."

* * *

Author's Note:

1. A phenomenon in northern Russia (but not exclusive to this region) when during the summer, the hours of darkness either diminish to only a few hours or disappear altogether due to the Earth's tilted axis and its relation to the sun over the course of year. Vice versa, winter is characterized by short day lit hours. But I'm sure you all know this already!

In relation to the poem, it's up to you to decide who the unnamed "you" in the poem is. It might be a lover. It might be the night. It might be sleep. Akhmatova is devilishly unclear about it. This is probably my favorite poem.

2. Princess of death! It is dawn, and love with born with the sun. You are mine! You can destroy me if you wish.

3. The Girl Who Weeps

4. This would be the 1993 release of this song on Bowie's _Buddha of Surburbia_ album, just so it fits within the timeline. A better known version of this song was released in 1995 on _Outside_, with a slightly different arrangement.

* * *

So, um.... yeah. It's over for real now. Thanks to everyone who read it and commented and added it to their favorite list, and to all the people who redirected me to new sources of inspirations, such as songs and videos that somehow made their way into the writing process. Most of all, thank you to everyone, because you motivated me to write. There's no bigger motivational force than knowing that a lot of people want to read this.

And along with the smattering of physics that somehow managed to weasel their way into a fanfiction about magic, possibly due to their relationship to alchemy, here is another mathematical thought for you:

"Love is like pi - natural, irrational, and very important" -- Lisa Hoffman

* * *

If anyone is interested in knowing what songs played a large part in shaping the story but weren't referenced, here's a track list (ps, I'm not listing any Bowie songs, for the simple reason that there's no point 8D You can go ahead and assume that I listened to _a lot_ of Bowie, because you're probably right. You know what, you _are_):

1. "I'll Forget You" from Frank Wildhorn's _The Scarlet Pimpernel_, lyrics by Nan Knighton

2. "Where's the Girl?" from the same musical.*

3. "When I Look At You" from the same musical.

4. "Inside of You" from the movie _Forgetting Sarah Marshall_.

5. "If I Never Knew You" from Disney's _Pocahontas_.

6. "If It Kills Me" by Jason Mraz, from the Casa Nova Sessions.

7. "Gravity" by Sara Bareilles.

8. "A Million Pieces" by Emmy Rossum.

9. "Tell Me Where It Hurts" by Garbage.

10. "Intrada" from Tchaikovsky's _The Nutcracker_. Actually, _The Nutcracker_ has been a large influencing force over the last few chapters. I recently rediscovered a Soviet animation of this story on youtube, which I had watched as a child, and proceeded to take a long and leisurely stroll down Memory Lane. Okay, maybe it was Memory Path. It was a twisty path, and I got lost a few times.

11. "Part of Your World" and its reprise, from Disney's _The Little Mermaid_, which actually the main thread of the story the whole time, even more so than all the _Phantom_ and _Beauty and the Beast_ parallels I let everyone see.

12. "If I Ever Fall in Love Again" by Sarah Brightman.

13. "The Last Man in My Life" by Sarah Brightman.

14. "Half a Moment" from Andrew Lloyd Webber's _Ask Jeeves_.

16. "The Last Midnight" and "Finale" from Stephen Sondheim's _Into the Woods_.

17. "Wanting" from the musical "Rags."*

18. "If I Can't Loe Her" from the Broadway musical version of Disney's _Beauty and the Beast_.*

19. "Far Longer than Forever" from _The Swan Princess._

20. "So In Love" from Cole Porter's _Kiss Me, Kate_.

21. "True" by Spandau Ballet.

22. "The Fear You Won't Fall" by Joshua Radin.

23. "Slide" by Goo Goo Dolls.

24. L'Email A Des Ailes" by Alizée.

25. "Shelf" by the Jonas Brothers. Yes, I'm very embarrassed by this fact.

26. "You Look So Fine" by Garbage.

* For anyone who's familiar with these songs, you'll know that they're performed by one Terrence Mann, whose voice I think is auditory sex. 8D

* * *

Other influences that were not referenced directly in previous quotations or author's notes:

_Finding Neverland_, starring Johnny Depp, Kate Winslet, Dustin Hoffman, and Freddie Highmore.

_Atonement_, book by Ian McEwan, movie directed by Joe Wright, starring Keira Knightley, James McAvoy, Romola

_Vanilla Sky_, starring Tom Cruise and Penelope Cruz.

_Ghostwalker_, a novel by Rebecca Stott.

_The Farseer Trilogy_ and its sequel _The Tawny Man Trilogy_ by Robin Hobb. Truthfully, the whole spiel about Jareth's name was heavy influenced/based on the Fool.


End file.
